


a strong enough foundation

by visiblemarket



Series: Foundations [5]
Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars: Shattered Empire
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, hamilton references are way uncool at this point but what are you going to do, some discussions of injuries but not too brutal i don't think, sort of, this is informally known as the travelogue fic and you will find out why, yavin iv tagged as a character because it's talked about A LOT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-03 09:15:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 21,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8706586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/visiblemarket/pseuds/visiblemarket
Summary: The General turns to look at him, and looks so fundamentally exhausted that Poe feels himself flush with shame. “Given your current…” her pause is masterful, born not from uncertainty but intent to leave him squirming. “Condition,” of unmitigated assholery, she doesn’t say, but clearly means. “He’ll be dropping you off at Yavin IV on the way."
  Poe swallows and fixes his gaze on one of the bleeping lights of the display behind her — a transport ship, he assumes, from the size and the speed with which it’s approaching Dermos. “Understood."
  The General seems surprised by his acquiescence, and her voice softens. “I know you won’t believe this, Commander,” she says, quietly. “But this isn’t a punishment."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [a kinkmeme prompt](http://tfa-kink.dreamwidth.org/3467.html?thread=6811787#cmt6811787):
> 
> _Poe sustains a fairly serious injury, nothing life-threatening or permanent but enough that he needs some time to recuperate and not over-stress himself. So Leia sends him on a mandatory vacation to Yavin 4, effective immediately, and to everyone's surprise Poe doesn't actually protest in the least. It's been a long time since he's seen his dad and a couple of weeks back home sound really nice._
> 
> _Anon isn't looking for anything too angsty. Just some nice family time in the middle of the war where Poe and Kes make the most of the situation. Kes being a good dad and maybe Poe letting himself be coddled a little bit and enjoying not having to be On 24/7._

BB-8 shrills at him, desperate and concerned, from the socket on the back of Black One. He's upside down, which can’t be any more pleasant for a droid than it is for him. Though, Poe has to admit, it’s probably not _worse_ — BB-8 certainly doesn’t have a safety harness digging into what is very likely a broken clavicle, the sharp, insistent pain of a broken rib poking at a lung, and the cool, wet drip of leaking coolant pulsing through the tears of a flight suit.

BB-8 doesn’t have a clavicle. Or ribs. Or lungs. Or a flight suit, come to that. Maybe he should — maybe, if Poe gets out of this, he’ll get him one.

He’s not getting out of this, he realizes, with a strange clarity. 

_Hell of a thing_ , he finds himself thinking, as his mind drifts and BB-8’s titters fade into a soft, familiar song. _Always hoped I’d die_ better _than this_.

He thinks — he feels — he _remembers_ a cool hand pressed to his forehead, right before the world goes dark.

**

He wakes up to the safely sterile scent of D’Qar's medwing in a great deal of pain which, he’ll admit, is probably better than not waking up at all.

In addition to the chemical burns streaking across torso, and the cracked ribs, his clavicle is — to quote the delightfully unclinical droid who breaks the news to him — functionally pulverized. They’re the kind of injuries that the New Republic Navy dealt with through a quick dip in a bacta tank and a couple of days bed rest. But the Resistance, in the noble tradition of underground movements everywhere, is somewhat strapped for cash and medical supplies. The best the doctors can do for him is patches to heal the burns, which he’s infinitely thankful for, and injections of an experimental drug meant to bring down swelling and accelerated bone growth. The recovery period is about a month, requires a cast and sling, and precludes _all_ but the most minimal movement of the affected area. And Poe Dameron’s a good pilot, one of the best he knows, certainly, but even he’s not exactly capable of piloting an x-wing with only minimal movement of his right arm and shoulder. 

The first week, it doesn’t really matter: he spends most of it drugged out of his mind. Anesthetics are hardly plentiful but are apparently _very necessary_ for the process, and his weak protests to the contrary are dismissed out of hand by everyone he tries to raise them with, from BB-8 to the medical droids to Doctor Kalonia, not to mention General Organa, whose strangely pale visage he wakes up to on Day 3, or maybe 4. 

By week two, he’s allowed to leave the medical wing, and finds himself wishing for the drugs again, because unfocused delirium _has_ to be better than constant nausea and perpetual tedium. There’s nothing more boring than spending his days roaming the base in search of something to do that only requires his left hand. 

 

As it turns out, there’s not much: Black One's going through extensive repairs in a hangar that he’s been preemptively banned from, and the simulators are all full of new recruits. And while most of them still look upon Poe with a certain degree of hero-worship, he’s not bored enough to take advantage of that for the sake a distraction when they’re all still in need of training.

He reads a lot: starts at least five novels and gives up on them, and goes right back to mission reports and his ship manuals — never know when intricate knowledge of the T70s will come in handy. 

He goes to the commissary, then the mess hall. 

He drops by the ambulance corps, to thank them for the rescue that’s put him in this particular predicament. His mom’d flown an ambulance ship for a while, he remembers: back before she’d been assigned her A-wing, a few months after enlisting with the Rebellion. Like most things related to her time in the war, Shara hadn’t talked about it. He’d had to find out, years later, from his father. Like it’d been something to be ashamed of, the fact that she’d been saving lives even before she’d been cleared for combat missions. 

His squad returns, piecemeal, from a set of missions. He tries not to go crazy listening to Snap and Jess talk about their milk-run trips to the outer-rim, but his cast itches and his stomach hurts and he feels tired, the kind of exhaustion that comes not from doing too much but too little, and of having nothing to look forward to. 

It’s fine. He’s dealing with it.

**

He deals with it for three weeks.

He might’ve dealt with it longer, except that’s when news comes in, of a practice run turned ambush on what they’d thought was an uninhabited system far from First Order territory. Three of the five recruits were killed, Iolo and Kune took serious hits, and Poe, who would have — _should have_ — been with them, was getting the hard cast removed from his arm and shoulder and told he needed another two weeks of light duty and a sling before he could return to active.

And now, he’s pacing the Control Room, trying to listen to the debate about balancing the need for off-planet training exercises and the risk of future attacks. 

“Commander Dameron?” 

He stills: General Organa is staring at him. “Ma’am?"

“Do you have a suggestion?"

“Yes,” he says, firmly. “Put me back on rotation."

There’s a few light titters around him; he ignores that, focuses on the General, who’s giving him a steady but almost gentle look. “I don’t think that’s the best idea right now."

The not-insignificant parts of Poe Dameron that have, through his Yavin IV upbringing and years of Academy training, developed an instinctual respect for a person of General Leia Organa’s experience, scream at him to shut up, to pause, to listen. The rest of him, the parts that are tired, angry, and, more than anything, _guilty_ , win. 

“With all _due_ respect, ma’am, I’m the best you’ve got right now—"

“And so humble, too,” she says, dryly. 

“ _Ma’am_ ,” he says, utterly failing at keeping his voice even. “You _need_ me out there. You can’t afford to lose any more pilots, and—"

“You are too important to the Resistance—"

Poe laughs, harshly. “From here? Doing _nothing_? I’m _useless_ to you right now!” he glances around: the room is full of people, many of whom seem reluctant to meet his eyes. “To _all_ of you.” 

“You are not useless, Dameron. You’re _healing_."

“I am healed!” he says, and makes the colossally stupid decision to rip open his sling and wave his _very much not healed_ arm around for emphasis. It’s agony, of course, but he’s got the training, and more importantly, the adrenaline, to push past that. “I’m _fine_!" 

“Commander Dameron—"

“People are _dead_ ,” he says, trying not to think too hard about them, three kids he’d recruited fresh from flight school, talked into abandoning a promising future in the New Republic Navy in favor of low wages and suicide missions. “Because I couldn’t keep my damn ship in the air."

“People are _dead_ , Commander Dameron, because the First Order is brutal, desperate, and sloppy. Putting you out there before you’re fully recovered from your injuries would be _just_ as—"

“I’m recovered!"

“Son—"

“ _I am not your son_ ,” he snarls, and through the swirling haze of pain, anger, and frustration, hears gasps. General Organa’s face changes, minutely, but Poe’s immediately certain that he might as well have slapped her. The momentary flash of vulnerability in her eyes fades to a cool darkness.

“Ma’am, I didn’t—"

“You’re dismissed, Commander Dameron."

He opens his mouth to protest, and she fixes him with an icy stare that cuts through him like blaster fire. He yanks his right hand up in a breathtakingly painful salute, nods, and exits the room.

**

He slinks back to his quarters and collapses, drapes his weak arm over his chest, and shuts his eyes to the sound of BB-8 practically cooing at him.

He lasts about half an hour like that, before the pain gets to be too much, before he starts worrying about having done permanent, irreparable damage to his arm, and drags himself to the medwing; BB-8 trails after him, chattering at everyone they pass on the way there, which is great, because it means Poe doesn’t need to.

Doctor Kalonia takes one look at his sloppily fastened sling and hustles him to a cot. “Lie down,” she says, stern, and Poe obeys. “I’m going to give you something for the pain?” she asks, like he has the option of saying no. He knows better: the minute he refuses it becomes an issue, it becomes a psych eval and another couple of weeks on the ground. 

A quick jab to his thigh and relief is almost immediate. “Thank you,” he says.

She nods at him. Unfastens his sling, runs a scanner along the length of his arm and shoulder. Purses her lips as she surveys the results.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, as the waves of hazy numbness flood over him.

“For what, Commander Dameron?"

“For—did I—did I mess up all your hard work?"

The doctor gives him a slight, but genuine, smile: “Not _my_ hard work, Commander."

His own, then. His own efforts to become indispensable to the Resistance, to give all he has to offer to protect the New Republic, freedom, and intergalactic stability. Everything his parents had fought for. All because he’s a grown man who can’t keep himself entertained and out of trouble for five fucking weeks. 

_What an idiot_ , he thinks, right before he dozes off.

**

“Shit,” he says, when he wakes up the next morning—because it is morning, and he’s spent the night in medical, taking up a bed—with his neck aching and his droid snoozing in low power. There’s another doctor at this hour of the day, whose name he doesn’t know, but whose face is familiar. She’s wearing a name tag; he cranes his neck, trying to get a glimpse at it, and sends spasms of discomfort rippling through his neck and shoulder.

“Commander Dameron!” says Dr. (apparently) Alara. “Good to see you awake."

“Good to be awake,” he lies, and sells it, the best he can, with a crooked grin.

Dr. Alara ducks her head, blushing. She fumbles with her data pad for a moment. “How long had it been since you got a good night’s sleep?"

“I don’t know,” he says, honestly. He isn’t even sure what qualifies as a good night’s sleep anymore.

“Right,” says the doctor. “Well, you got a solid ten hours last night. There’s been a couple of people in here, looking for you, but Dr. Kalonia told me to keep them—keep you—well, make sure you got your rest."

If there’s anything he doesn’t need more of, it’s rest, but Poe nods. “Who’s looking for me?"

“Maybe you should get breakfast first."

“Good idea,” he says, smiling. “After that, though. I wanna check in with whoever’s looking for me as soon as possible."

“Well, half your squadron’s come and gone. General Organa’s droid came, some of the—"

“General Organa’s droid?” He stands up, much too quickly. “Did he say anything?"

“Just that you’re to report to the General once you’re feeling up to it."

Great. Well. That’s never, probably. He sighs. “Thanks, Doc,” he says, and gives a lilting whistle to rouse BB-8 from artificial slumber. 

“Commander Dameron—"

“Breakfast, I got it!” he calls back, turning glancing over his shoulder to wink at her. “Headin’ to the mess right now, I promise."

**

All he gets at the mess is caf and and a protein bar, but it’ll have to be enough. His head’s still light from the painkillers and the _ten hours of sleep_ (he hasn’t gotten ten hours of sleep since he was a kid: sick, home from school, and miserable).

The Control Room is quiet when he gets there: by no means not empty, but nowhere near as full as when he had his tantrum. The General is there, of course: looking at a broad array of the galaxy, apparently updating the planets currently believed to be under immediate threat from the First Order. 

“You sent for me, ma’am?"

“There’s been reports of suspiciously efficient raids on trade ships just beyond the Gordian Reach."

“Oh?” Poe hears himself say, colder than he intends, but he’s got a bad feeling as to where this conversation is going and can’t help himself.

"Wexley’s making a reconnaissance run out there, in hopes of getting a fuller picture of the situation."

“Good for him."

The General turns to look at him, and looks so fundamentally exhausted that Poe feels himself flush with shame. “Given your current…” her pause is masterful, born not from uncertainty but intent to leave him squirming. “Condition,” of _unmitigated assholery_ , she doesn’t say, but clearly means. “He’ll be dropping you off at Yavin IV on the way."

Poe swallows and fixes his gaze on one of the bleeping lights of the display behind her — a transport ship, he assumes, from the size and the speed with which it’s approaching Dermos. “Understood."

The General seems surprised by his acquiescence, and her voice softens. “I know you won’t believe this, Commander,” she says, quietly. “But this isn’t a punishment."

Poe straightens his back. His shoulder aches, which seems appropriate. “Am I dismissed?"

General Organa sighs. “You are, Commander Dameron."

“Thank you, ma’am,” he says. In lieu of a salute, he gives a curt nod, and spins on his heel with precision his Academy instructors would’ve wept at. It’s the best he can do.

**

Snap, like everyone else who’d witnessed his breakdown, has been walking on eggshells around Poe since then.

Poe finds himself resenting it, though in a way it’s easier, means he doesn’t have to make much conversation on the quick jump to the Gordian Reach. Not like he’s got much to say, anyway. _Sorry I’ve been such a dick lately, buddy_ , might be a start, but he’s not quite ready to make it, especially not with Snap throwing him those careful, wary looks, like he’s going to — hah— _snap_ at any minute. 

He’s nice enough to let Poe sit in the co-pilot’s seat, though, so Poe smiles as pleasantly as he can, and keeps his mouth shut otherwise. Forces his good hand into his pocket, to keep it from twitching anxiously at the controls he’s desperate to touch, and tries his best not to think about how much he hates riding in ships that he isn’t himself flying.

**

They reach Yavin IV just as night begins to fall: Poe watches the shade of the thick canopy of tree tops change from vibrant green to dull black as Yavin sets ahead of them.

The grey-brown stone of the ancient towers peak from the trees, gleaming under the light from the gas giant. Poe feels a swift, strange punch to the gut at the sight. He hasn’t lived here in years, went straight from Academy barracks to a solitary apartment on Mirrin Prime to the cramped quarters on D’Qar. Hadn’t been born there, even. But something about this place always gets to him — the thick air, the lush jungle. The sounds of animals and insects; even some of the plants rustle on their own, a background, soft susurration that’d been terrifying, as a kid, but now it’s just…

Snap sets the ship down in a clearing a couple hundred feet from the ranch. Poe wills himself out of his memories, out of his head, and back to reality. He can see the lights of the ranch in the distance, the koyo grove stretching out over the hill. 

“Home sweet home?” Snap says, and Poe huffs a laugh. 

“I guess.” He stands up, grabs his bag, and calls for BB-8, who rolls after him, quieter than usual. Almost as if he's caught Poe's mood, and he kind of hates himself for that, for transmitting his childish melancholy to a usually impossibly chipper droid. 

Snap follows him, a couple of steps behind. Poe’s strangely grateful for it, and even more at the fact that he seems to know better than to ofter to take Poe’s bag. 

A tall, solid figure emerges from the ranch, and lopes up to them; BB-8 lets out a happy little squeal and rushes away, greeting Kes Dameron by spinning gleefully around his ankles till he crouches down, putting him roughly at eye level with the droid. His laughter fills the distance between him and Poe.

“Hey, little buddy,” he hears his father say, watches him make a real show of listening to BB-8’s bleeps. Kes has never quite been able to get the hang of binary, but he fakes it well; BB-8 apparently hasn’t realized. 

Eventually, Kes straightens from his crouch. “Hey, kid,” he calls out, waving.

Poe holds his head up high, trying his best not to feel like a child who just got sent home, though that’s functionally what he is. “Hey, dad."

Kes looks at him for a moment, mouth twitching, before throwing his gaze back at Snap, like a challenge.

“That you back there, Temmin Wexley?"

Poe doesn’t need to glance back to know that Snap’s saluting. “Sergeant Dameron. Sir.” 

“At ease, son,” Kes says, finally letting a smile peek through. He walks up to Poe, resting a hand on his uninjured shoulder and giving him a squeeze; Poe nods in response, letting his gaze drop. Kes _tsks_ lightly at him, but returns his attention to Snap. “You got time to join us for dinner, Captain?"

“‘Fraid not, sir. Recon mission."

“Next time you’re in the system, then?"

“That’d be—that’d be great, sir."

“Good man,” Kes says, nodding. “Take care of yourself out there."

“Will do, sir,” Snap says. A moment’s hesitation, and then: “Poe?"

Poe half-turns, just enough to be able to glance over his shoulder and give him a friendly wave. “See you soon, buddy. Thanks for the ride."

Snap swallows his momentary surprise and grins back in something like relief. “Any time, man,” he says. “Have fun."

Poe forces a smile and nods again, which does nothing great for the incipient headache. Snap seems satisfied, though, and heads back to his ship. Poe turns away, gazing at the house while he listens to the engines start up. 

“How you doin’, kid?” 

He glances over at his dad. “Great."

Kes laughs, obviously unconvinced, as he reaches down to grab Poe’s bag. 

“I can—"

“Yeah, yeah,” Kes says, slinging it over his shoulder, which settles it.

“Thanks, dad." 

Kes smiles at him, small and fond, and throws a careful arm over Poe’s shoulders, guides him back to the ranch with BB-8 bringing up the rear. “You hungry?"

He’s not. Hasn’t been for weeks, really. Not about to say it, though. 

“For _your_ cooking?” Poe says, with a smirk. "Always."

Kes snorts. “Oh, all right, smart guy,” he says, pushing him forward and into the house. “Go get washed up, we’ll see how much of my _terrible_ food you can choke down."

Poe opens his mouth to respond but, can’t: his breath catches as he looks around.

It’s the same as it’s always been, the house: orange walls in the hallway, blue in the living room to his right, green in the kitchen, which he can catch a glimpse of from here. The holo frames in the foyer track his life: squirming out of his mother’s lap when he’s about four; grinning widely on the first day of school, with his curls neatly combed; a rotating series shots of him, standing next to the tree out front, charting their mutual growth over the years. A large image on the dark wooden table in front of him: his graduation ceremony at the Academy, having his wings pinned on by his father, while both of them try not to cry. 

BB-8 bumps against the back of his calves; he drops his gaze, suddenly aware of the fact that he’s standing in the middle of the hallway, staring at nothing. His father’s beside him, asking if he’s all right. 

“I’m fine,” he says, because he has to be. 

His dad chuckles, drops Poe's bag to the ground, and comes up around him. “C’mere, kid."

“Dad—"

“I know, I know, you’re fine. For your old man, okay?” he says, slinging an arm around Poe’s good shoulder and pulling him close. Poe doesn’t fight it, lets himself be dragged into a firm, all-enveloping hug. Presses his forehead against his father’s shoulder, wraps his good arm around his waist, and takes a breath. “Missed you, kid,” says Kes, stroking the back of his head. Poe’s struck by a half-forgotten memory, of Kes picking him up and carrying home from a day at the fair, of stroking his hair in the same way. 

“Missed you too,” Poe mumbles, and blinks, a little desperately, trying to chase the watery sting out of his eyes.

**


	2. Chapter 2

The best thing that can be said about meals at the Resistance is that they’re plentiful, and better than most emergency ration packs. 

Kes Dameron’s culinary sensibilities are practically decadent by comparison, for all that his approach to meals has always been simple, comprised of three main components: meat, starch, and some sort of local fruit or vegetable. Today, it’s the fried, breaded meat that Poe’d always liked as a kid, cut up into easily manageable strips like a four year old (or a grown man with only one functional arm), would need, with plantains on the side, and a squishy, red, boiled fruit on the side. There’s also green spicy sauce that Kes would normally have poured over everything indiscriminately; today, it’s in a side dish. Poe looks at it and raises his eyebrows.

Kes shrugs. “Painkillers always fucked with my digestion back in the day. Figured you might want something a little less…” Kes waves his hands vaguely. 

“Thanks, dad,” he says, and finds himself meaning it. 

Kes grins at him, winks, and goes to work drowning each of the items on his plate in sauce.

“Got any requests for the rest of the week?"

“I don’t want to put you out,” Poe says, automatically.

Kes huffs a laugh. “Yeah. Well, I was thinking of headin’ to the town tomorrow. Gotta stop by the market, see some friends. You feeling up for it?"

“Sure,” he says, having no reason not to. “Can I drive?” 

His dad gives him a look. “With one arm?"

“Still be a better driver than you,” he points out, grinning, and Kes rolls his eyes. 

“Whatever you say, hotshot."

Poe chuckles to himself and digs into his meal. It’s a pain to eat with one hand but he’s almost gotten used to it. “Pá in town this month?"

“Nah, he’s gonna be pissed he missed you, though. I’m never gonna hear the end of it."

“I’ll give him a call when I’m—when I’m back on base.” That’s the best case scenario, anyway. His grandfather’ll be glad to hear from him: it’s been too long since he reached out, but Poe's not sure he wants him knowing the full details of his trip back home just yet. It’d been tough enough explaining his decision to give up Rapier Squadron. 

Kes nods; Poe’s not sure if it’s at himself or in agreement with his plan. “He’ll like that."

**

He goes to bed early.

His room is, as ever, untouched: model ships hanging from the ceiling, bed made, old holorecords lined up in alphabetical order on the shelf his dad had helped him put up when he was ten. There’s a desk and chair he’s not even sure would fit him anymore, and the bed’s smaller than what he’s got on base, but it’s softer, too. He flops down on it, not even bothering to change. Just kicks off his boots and lies down on top of the covers, listening to the sounds of the jungle beyond his window: the cooing of whisper birds, the hoots of woolmanders as they swing from branch to branch of the ancient Massassi trees.

Inside, he can hear BB-8 beeping at his father, and his father laughing, talking to the droid as if it were a child: gently, enthusiastically, though Poe knows he doesn’t understand a thing.

The night storm starts, and he shuts his eyes, drifting off to the sound of raindrops on the durasteel roof.

**

Habit has him up before dawn the next morning, which is still not before his dad, who’s already gotten a start on brewing caf and making breakfast. Eggs, with spiced sausage, and fresh juice. Poe can’t complain.

“Where’s BB-8?” he asks, stifling a yawn. 

Kes snorts, and pulls him toward the window looking over the backyard: between the line of storage unit, his mother’s A-wing, and the squat chicken coop his father’d built the year Poe left for the Academy, BB-8 is rolling across the grass, pursued by—

“What the hell is _that_?"

Kes sighs. “That’s Xóchitl."

Poe stares at the large, feline creature, with dark purple fur, pointy ears, and a thick plumy tail. “The hell’s a Xóchitl?"

“No clue,” says Kes. “Your grandfather brought her back from some planet where they breed ‘em. Told me she’d be good for keepin’ the sintarils away from the chickens."

“Is she?” says Poe, morbidly fascinated as the animal leaps over BB-8 and then flops onto her back, rolling in the grass for a while as the droid beeps excitedly at her. 

“Haven’t lost one since,” says Kes. 

Poe nods to himself, thoughtful. Kes hands him a mug of caf, which he takes a sip from, and then puts down on the kitchen table.

“Sleep well?” 

“Yeah,” Poe says automatically, only to realize that that it’s true. Better than he has since leaving Mirrin Prime, even. “You?"

Kes shrugs, and hands him a plate of eggs. Poe takes it, sitting down and wondering at Kes’s sudden reticence: his father’s never been a big talker, but he’s always made it a point to answer direct questions directly. 

His father fills his own plate, then sits down in front of Poe. They meet each other’s eyes, nod, and dig in. 

Breakfast is quick and quiet, like it has been ever since Poe was a kid (or, at least, ever since it was only Poe and his dad at the kitchen table). When they’re done, Kes washes and dries the dishes, and Poe stands awkwardly to the side, doing his one-handed best to put things away once they’re clean. Everything’s where he remembers it, at least. 

After, they both go outside: Xóchitl bounds up to his father, butting her head against his thigh, humming like some strange, organic engine. Kes chuckles and gives her a few loud pats before heading off for one of the storage units, and Xóchitl goes back to darting around BB-8. 

Poe approaches them slowly; Xóchitl turns her head to look at him before he’s close enough to touch. She’s got big golden eyes and ears that prick forward, as if waiting for him to speak. “Hey, girl,” he says, taking another step, and reaches out, runs careful fingers through the thick, dark fur. She makes a strange, low _mrrrrow_ sound at him, and Poe finds himself smiling.

BB-8 bumps against his leg, and he laughs, reaching over to pat his head. “Sorry, buddy. I’ve only got one the one hand right now.” He eases himself onto the dew-damp grass, and is met with a wave of all-encompassing feline affection as BB-8 makes vaguely scolding noises. 

By the time Kes comes back, firmly ensconced behind the controls of the transport vehicle, Poe’s got Xóchitl sprawled expansively over his lap, purring loudly, as BB-8 beeps and bumps playfully against Poe’s back. 

Kes hops out of the speeder and raises his eyebrows at them. “You okay down there?" he says.

“Oh, fine,” Poe says. “Always wanted to be mauled by wild animals and ambushed by machines.” BB-8 titters at him, clearly insulted. Poe laughs and nudges back against him. “Just kidding, buddy."

Kes snorts, before letting out a sharp, short whistle and jerking his head to the left. Xóchitl bolts off of Poe instantly and lopes away in that direction. “Gotta be firm with her, kid,” says Kes, with that tone he gets when he’s about to start the _these’re working animals, they ain’t pets_ lecture. Poe’s heard it enough times and doesn’t really need it repeated, and just nods, hoping to hold it off. His father offers him a hand, and Poe takes it, lets himself be dragged up, off the ground. “You ready?”

Poe nods

“Good.” Kes glances over at BB-8. “You comin’, little guy?” The droid gives a steady stream of bleeps that basically amount to _I’d rather stay and play!_ Kes looks at Poe, who shakes his head. Kes shrugs. “Okay, then,” he says, and waves a stern finger at BB-8. “Behave yourself, BB-8.”

The droid chirps affirmatively, before streaking away in search of his new best friend. Poe can’t hold back a slightly bemused chuckle. Kes hears it, and grins. “Don’t feel too bad,” he says, slinging his arm over Poe’s shoulders. “ _I_ still like you best.”

“Oh yeah? Enough to let me drive?”

Kes throws his head back, laughing, as he steers him over toward the passenger side, and slides open the door. “No,” he says, and shoves Poe inside.

**

The Town of New Hope is about a twenty minute drive from the ranch, if you’re making reasonable speed and observing the recommended guidelines proliferated by the local government.

Kes Dameron, who drives below a reasonable speed at the best of times and seems especially cautious today, seems determined to make sure it lasts more than thirty.

Poe tries to mind, but being in the fresh air is nice, as is seeing the jungle stretch out around him, instead of blurred into the tangle of green it usually becomes when he drives. He can smell eyualca flowers blooming, and hear the sounds of pirahna beetles over the rumble of the engine.

His father’s quiet, which is normal, but keeps glancing over at him, which is not. They’re approaching the ancient-looking but actually barely thirty year old gates that signal the entrance to town before he finally speaks.

“You talk to Mel recently?"

Poe blinks. “You mean since we broke up? Not really."

“Shame,” says Kes. “Always liked him."

“Well, I think he’s still single. Could get you his number, if you want."

Kes huffs and reaches over to ruffle his hair. “Okay, smart ass. Who are you seein' these days?" 

“No one."

“No one?” Kes gives him a look. “Or no one exclusively?"

“Dad!” Poe says, surprised into a laugh, though he wonders what his father’s heard — Kes doesn’t seem particularly perturbed by the possibilities, and just smirks as he pulls the speeder over in front of the market. 

“You coming in?” he says. 

Poe starts to shrug, like an idiot, and winces. “Yeah,” he says. “Why not?” 

Massassi Market Square, like most of the buildings at the very center of town, is about as old as Poe. The architect, an Alderiaan ex-pat, had designed it according to what he called Ancient Massassi Principles, meaning a lot of local stone, heavy columns, and artistic interpretations of the ancient, still-untranslated glyphs found on the many temples scattered around Yavin IV.

It’d been started a year after Poe and his family had moved to the moon, to commemorate the fifth-year anniversary of the Battle of Yavin, and completed the following summer. Poe’s memories of the opening ceremony are some of the earliest he has: lots of music, cut-paper streamers hanging from the roof, stalls piled with brightly colored fruits. Holding both of his parents' hands, walking between them, pulling them along in his desperation to see the booth with model ships hanging from the support beams. His first kiss had been against the building's smooth, sun-warmed outer walls; it’d tasted like the sour-sweet muja juice Old Val had sold in vibrant plasto bubbles. He knows the place like he knows parents' ranch, like he knows the interior of his x-wing: instinctually, fundamentally. 

Or at least, he had.

“It’s bigger,” says Poe, pointlessly, as he looks around. 

“Storm took out the east wing ‘bout two years ago. Council voted for an expansion and renovation plan. Put in permanent stalls, fixed up the fountain, that kind of thing."

“It’s nice.” And it is: the interior’s brightly lit, uncluttered. The permanent stalls add an air of order to a place that Poe’d always loved for its hectic bustle. He feels his father’s gaze on him, and turns his head to meet it. “I like it,” he says, reassuring himself more than anyone. He takes a breath: the scent of spices and candy and meat, both raw and grilling, meets him, but not at nearly strongly as he’d remembered it.

“New air filtration system too,” says Kes.

“Good,” Poe nods, and tries to ignore the strange swell of disappointment. “Old Val still in business?"

“There’s a new Val now,” says his dad. “But the menu’s the same."

“Wanna meet me there in an hour?” Poe says, forcing a smile. “My treat?"

Kes gives him a careful, steady look. “Okay, kid. Keep out of trouble."

"When do I ever get into trouble?” Poe mutters, automatically, and Kes gives him a long, steady look, gaze resting on Poe’s busted arm just long enough to make his point. Poe rolls his eyes, but nods, acknowledging it. Kes cracks a smile, leans in, and presses a kiss to his forehead.

Poe blinks in shock, but before he can say anything, his father’s turned and walked away, disappearing behind the booths piled with new and gently-used clothes.

And, just like that, Poe’s on his own.

Or at least, as one his own as he can be, in the middle of a crowded market, being jostled by a band of older women dragging bright canvas shopping carts, wide-eyed tourists from the Core, and the occasional bored-looking Civilian Defense Guard.

Poe sighs. Steadies himself. Avoids squaring his shoulders, because he imagines it would hurt, but nods to himself, and heads off, with no real direction in mind, other than _away_.

**


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She reaches over and hands him a map: it’s made from the cheaper kind of paper, only capable of rotating between a few sets of images, but apparently featuring some low-tech locator function, because a dot appears over the charmingly rendered Market Square and cheerfully proclaims: _YOU ARE HERE!__
> 
> __Good to know_ , Poe finds himself thinking._

Poe’s parents had been nothing but holograms to him for the first few years of his life. It wasn’t until Yavin IV that he’d been able to form memories of them as human beings, and he’d watched them carefully as they moved through the world: the way his mother’s eyes sparked with interest and amusement, the way his father’s hands moved as he spoke, the way the two of them smiled at each other, how they’d seemed to speak without words, over his head, with nothing but a twitch of the lip or a wink or a quick glance.

But then, he’d watched everything carefully, peeking from behind his mother’s hip. He hadn’t been afraid, precisely, just always wary of being noticed. People who saw him tended to react, tended to want to talk to him, coo over his curls and his serious expression, but he’d wanted to see them as they were when they didn’t know he was looking. 

Market day’d been good for that — always an event, the only time, before Poe’d started school, where he’d spent time with people who weren’t his parents.

Once a week, he and his parents would pile into the old transport vehicle, take the long drive down to town, and make a day of it, buying produce and meat for the week, eating lunch while waiting out the midday storm, and perusing the stalls loaded with second-hand tech, hand-made toys, and clothes in the afternoon. 

His mother, always calm and serious, had a great eye for quality: even back when the market itself had been nothing but canvas tents on recently cleared earth, she’d had merchants clamoring for her attention and approval of their goods. His father, generous with his grins and handshakes even when he couldn’t be with his credits, had built real friendships with them, picking up names and stories like some people did blades of grass or wildflowers.

And Poe, finger hooked in his mother’s beltloop, watching as the cloth merchants folded and unfolded their wares, as brightly colored spices were scooped into plasto containers and weighed, as the thick-armed and cheerful butcher cleaved gushing pink flesh apart and then tucked it into tied brown paper bundles. The produce vendors shouting prices per weight, bantering at each other and their potential customers; Poe, who’d never seen half the vividly colored and strangely shaped fruits and vegetables on their stalls, learned a lot of words that way, some of which described the merchandise, most of which described the merchants and probably shouldn’t've been added to the vocabulary of a six year old. 

Poe’s relieved to find most of that unchanged — the delicately swirled mounds of seasonings; the neatly folded piles fabric, most of it silky-smooth and light, given the climate; the trilling, droning cadence of the fruit and vegetable sellers. The butcher, older now, but still with that wide smile and stubby fingers, waves at Poe, apparently recognizing him. Poe waves back, automatically, lost in thought.

It doesn’t take him long to get actually lost: this side of the market is newer, full of stalls run by people about his age, maybe even younger, none of whom he knows. He doesn’t mind, really: there’s plenty to see.

Tech from the Core has always taken a while to make it to Yavin IV, so datapads and comm units are always about a generation behind, but the variety, Poe has to admit, has improved. There’s also toys he could’ve only dreams of as a kid — a remote controlled X-wing that not only flies but sends out bright imitations blasts, for one, which he nearly caves and buys. 

The reminder that he’s got nowhere to put it, and won’t for a while, stops him: being the child of two soldiers has taught him to live light, to keep his quarters on base neat and bare of anything he’d be crushed to lose in the case of an emergency evacuation or a sudden raid.

His good hand slips back into his jacket pocket, and he keeps walking, nodding a quick thanks to the purveyor of the X-Wing; she gives him a half-hearted salute in response, which he finds strange, but not disquieting enough to stop and investigate. 

He trails along the seemingly infinite rows of stalls. These are piled with souvenirs, mostly replicas of the Great Temple hand-carved from local wood or stone, or headdresses made from the feathers of whisper birds that’ve been dyed garishly red and green. Supposedly, they're inspired by the drawings of Massassi warriors found within some of the ancient temple complexes. Poe’s never been as fond of those. 

He weaves around the gaggle of tourists — Durosians, by the look of them — and heads for the sound of running water. Yavenese architecture, for reasons of tradition and convenience, tends to center itself around fountains, and the Market Square is no exception. It’s a good a place as any to get his bearings a little, and is unlikely to have been changed. 

He’s spotted the black tile border that designates the central courtyard before he realize he can hear someone calling his name. He looks around: there, by a small cart, piled with holorecords and ‘vids and posters, is a man of about his height and age, with sun-lightened brown hair, jumping up and down, whooping, and waving both hands in the air. Poe finds himself grinning and waving back, jogging toward him immediately. “Sola!"

“Dameron!” He reaches out and grabs Poe’s free hand, drawing him in and bumping their chests together. It’s an old greeting, and Poe laughs a little as Sola slaps his back, and then pulls away. “Man! Look at you! Lookin’ good, brother!” Poe laughs, and ducks his head. Sola takes this as permission to ruffle Poe’s hair, like he used to when they were kids. “Haven’t aged a day, you son of a bitch. What’s the Navy got ya’ doin’ these days, modelin’? You still out on Mirrin Prime?"

“Nah, I’m—” Poe shrugs, ducks his head again. Sola shakes his shoulder a little, friendly, obviously avoiding Poe’s sling. “Doin’ some other work."

“Top secret shit, man, yeah, I hear ya. Good stuff, good stuff. You here to see your dad?"

“Uh—yeah. Yeah, you know. Been a while since I’ve been back."

“I’ll say, man. You hear I got married? Got divorced, like, three days later, total shit show. You in the market for anything?"

Poe’s torn between _congratulations_ and _my condolences_ and looking at the pile of merchandise, the majority of which is of questionable origin and legality. But there’s no one better than Sola Bele and his family for the newest releases, some of which are, rather inexplicably, obtained weeks before their official premiere dates. Sola grins at him again, and punches his arm. “Damn, Dameron. Still so fucking _handsome_ , dude."

“Not so bad yourself, man,” Poe says, and blushes. Because he’s not: Sola’s got golden eyes and full lips, and his light brown hair falls over his forehead in soft curves. Poe’d had one hell of a crush on him when they were both fifteen, has always wondered if Sola’d realized.

Sola snorts, and turns away. Yeah, he probably had. 

“Wait, I got somethin’ for you,” he says, digging through a colorful pile of disks that don’t seem to be organized in any particular way, but he finds what he’s looking for quickly enough: _Hakko Drazlip and the Tootle Froots_ , Poe reads off the cover, as it’s pressed onto his palm, and nearly drops it.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me."

Sola grins. “Your dad’ll love that, huh?"

“I—yeah, how the hell did you—"

“Oh, you know, got my ways, right? Remastered from the club recordings, clear as crystal, they’re gonna release it in the Core next week, but for you..."

“How much?” 

“Make it five, and you buy me a drink before you leave town."

“Sola,” he says, sharply; it’s worth at least three times that, probably cost him a fortune to obtain. For all Poe knows, he’s got a buyer lined up already who’s willing to pay more than it’s worth, even.

“Okay, okay,” Sola says, raising his hands in surrender. “Two drinks, final offer.” 

Poe laughs. “You sure?” 

Sola holds out his hand, and Poe takes it; finds himself reeled into another chest-bumping, full-bodied embraced. “Been much too long, man,” Sola murmurs, patting his back again, before he lets him go. 

“I hear you, buddy.”

**

Seven credits lighter, in possession of what’s almost certainly contraband, Poe wanders back toward the fountain.

It’s been cleaned, and some of the old, chipped tiles around the base have been replaced, but otherwise it remains mostly same: sky-blue and koyo-melon-green ceramic tiles arranged in a broad circular base, water flowing in steady arcs from four tiers.The water in the reservoir glimmers — it’s clearer than it used to be, probably a casualty of a new filtration system.

Poe sits down on the edge of the basin. His plan is to take a bit of a break, check the time, figure out how to get back to Val’s. 

Instead, his eye immediately catches on a wholly unfamiliar octagonal structure, about the same size as the larger market stalls, painted in what’s playfully known as Yavenese Green, and adorned with signs reading TOURIST INFORMATION in several languages. The girl seated within it has long dark hair braided with green ribbons, and is reading from a data pad. She looks up, startled, when Poe approaches. 

“Welcome to Massassi Market Square pride of Yavin IV cradle of the New Republic,” she rushes out in lightly accented Basic. “Can I help you book a tour to our grand temple structures or one of the many natural wonders of our lovely moon?"

“Not…right now, thanks,” Poe says. “I’m actually just…trying to find my way back to the northwest entrance? Old Val used to have a stand back there, I don’t know if you—"

“Ah, a local boy,” she says, dropping the manic tone. She smiles at him; her name, according to the name tag, is Ayla, and she can’t be more than sixteen years old. “You’re very close. Down that row,” she says, gesturing as she explains. “Two lefts, and a right. Can’t miss it. But just in case…” She reaches over and hands him a map: it’s made from the cheaper kind of paper, only capable of rotating between a few sets of images, but apparently featuring some low-tech locator function, because a dot appears over the charmingly rendered Market Square and cheerfully proclaims: _YOU ARE HERE!_

 _Good to know_ , Poe finds himself thinking. He presses a finger to the pictogram, and a text bubble appears, informing him of the date of construction, the architect, and a few more fun facts about the building, before blooming into a detailed floor plan. 

“Can I hold on to this?” he asks. 

“Of course! That’s what they’re here for!” she says, brightly, and then sobers, seemingly remembering something. “All maps and promotional materials are generously provided by the Town of New Hope’s Chamber of Commerce.” Poe cocks his head, and she leans in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “They make us say that."

Poe smiles. “Never would’ve guessed."

She blushes, and smiles back. “Good luck, local boy,” she says. “Drink some muja juice for me."

Poe winks and gives her a little salute; she matches it, still blushing, and drops her gaze back down her datapad before he can say anything else.

**

He makes it to Val’s before his father does and settles onto one of the red plasto stools in front of the counter. Makes idle conversation with New Val, who was a year ahead of him in school and was well known, even then, as the artistic sort. This seems to have born out: her stall is adorned with meticulously realized depictions of Massassi warriors and anthropomorphized trees sharing plasto-bubble drinks with a variety of alien races and such distinguished company as a young Leia Organa and Luke Skywalker in a well-intentioned approximation of Jedi robes.

The day’s offerings of freshly made juices are displayed in broad, clear casks lined up behind the counter; the names and prices are detailed in lovely flowing script, which he’s in the midst of reading when he feels the wide hand settle around the back of his neck.

“Didn’t get lost, did you, kid?"

“Nope,” Poe says, half turning on his stool. Kes gives a low snort and sits down next to him. 

“Lyin’ to your old man already,” he says. “Knew running around with the Resistance’d be a bad influence on you. Hey, Val,” he calls out, smiling as she turns around to greet him. “How you doin’?"

“Hey, Sergeant. Just keeping this off-worlder company, y’know?” she says, nodding at Poe. 

“Damn tourists, always sniffing around,” Kes says, gruffly. "Not givin' you any trouble, is he?”

“I’m right here,” Poe feels compelled to say, and rolls his eyes as they both dissolve into laughter. 

“So what can I get you boys?” says Val, once she and his father have had a good chuckle on his account.

Kes looks at him. “The usual?” Poe nods; that’ll be one muja juice for him, and chilled paricha for his dad. “The usual, Val."

“Comin’ right up,” she says, winking at Kes before she turns away, making a show of flipping her glossy black hair over her shoulder as she goes.

Poe smirks at his father, who narrows his eyes and mouths _Don’t start_. Poe shakes his head, chuckling to himself and looks around for whatever it was his dad came to buy. 

“Already dropped everything back on the transpo,” Kes says. “Mighta got a few surprises, maybe."

“Oh yeah?” Poe says, thinking of the record tucked safely away in his jacket pocket. “Fancy that."

“Not for you, mind. But I thought BB-8 could use a nice treat, and I know you can’t keep a secret worth a damn."

“Well, you ain’t wrong about that,” Poe says, and straightens as Val returns with their drinks. “So who’re we meeting up with after this?"

Kes takes a long sip from his paricha. “Mm,” he hums, that low, satisfied, _dad_ noise he makes when pleased. "Just a couple of the guys from the VETCO. If you’re feelin’ up to it, anyway." 

“I think I’ll survive,” says Poe, dryly; his arm hasn’t hurt all day, and he can picture worse ways to spend his afternoon than drinking with his dad’s old war buddies.

What’s the worst that could happen, really?

**


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“It’s good you came home,” she says, low, leaning in a little to be heard by just him._
> 
> _“Yeah?”_
> 
> _“Your father had us pretty worried.”_
> 
> _Poe blinks. Glances over at his dad, who’s in a deep discussion about how the trainer for Gordian Athletic was too much of a political pick to be very effective._
> 
> _"Well, you know how Dad is," Poe says, vague but conspiratorial; Sakas laughs and shakes her head, sending her tendrils swaying._

Yavin IV had been abandoned for years before the Rebel Alliance moved in, its native warrior-race decimated by the Sith several millennia before, its ancient temples crumbling before the glacial onslaught of of a living, breathing jungle. Isolated and remote, it’d been the perfect place to cultivate a rebellion, to throw together a bunch of farm boys and merchant brats, refugees and criminals, the galaxy’s abused and disposed, and turn them into soldiers, fighting for a cause greater than themselves.

And then the Rebels had departed, leaving the hastily converted military barrack, control rooms, landing strips, and storage bins in their wake— the regular detritus of an army on the move, forgotten in the rush to relocate in the wake of the near miss from the first Death Star.

When Poe’s parents had moved there for good, Yavin IV, an Outer Rim moon with no native population and few strategic advantages, had only just been remembered by the galaxy at large. A Settlement Committee had formed, giving priority to veterans and people displaced by the war. Kes Dameron and Shara Bey, who were both, had apparently not even considered other options.

They’d built a house; his mother had flown for the Civil Defense patrol, and his father had learned to farm, planting a carefully chosen variety of fruits and vegetables, figuring out what would stick. 

Poe has always suspected, though never asked, that they’d both been ready to put a substantial amount of distance between themselves and the complexities of intragalactic politics brewing in the Core, where the new government was still going through extended growing pains.

A ranch in the midst of the deadly fauna, the sometimes carnivorous flora, and the daily torrential rainstorms (usually called “The Torments” by the locals, who were quick to adapt to the quirks of their newly adopted home with mostly good humor) might’ve seemed like strange place to find peace. But Poe’s parents had managed. All they’d really needed was each other; or at least, that’s how Poe remembers it. 

Back then, hapless explorers who wandered off the beaten path, away from the few established townships, quickly found themselves at risk from the wildlife, the geography, and the weather itself.

These days, the jungle’s just as thick and, in most ways, just as dangerous. The towns are a little bigger, though — New Hope isn’t exactly the pinnacle of urban sprawl, but there are more shops, and the local school house has a gained a second story since Poe attended it, and a fresh, brighter coat of paint. The Governing Palace, housed in one of the ancient Massassi structures, has been substantially renovated, with newly reinforced walls and another wing for the growing bureaucratic force associated with the moon's local Council and its representative to the Galactic Senate.

There’s even a couple of new cantinas, some trendy enough they’d look right at home on Corcuscant. The rest are pretty kitschy, catering to the tourists who pour from the green-and-white hover-buses shuttling folks to and from the old Rebel base, which has been turned into a supposedly cutting-edge museum celebrating the efforts of the Alliance to free the galaxy from imperial tyranny. Poe’s only been once, on the day it opened; half of holo-displays hadn’t worked, and the ones that had tended toward hagiographic depictions of several freedom fighters, including the much-vaunted local hero, Lieutenant Shara Bey Dameron. He hasn’t really felt the need to go again.

He and his dad weave around the gaggle of tourists, who mostly stick to the main streets and the tidy shops with the brightly colored walls and the restaurants serving traditional Yavenese fare. The place the Damerons are heading, with its packed-dirt floor and its lack of umbrella drinks, is maybe a little too authentic for most off-worlders.

The Armored Eel is not exactly a dive, but it is entirely without pretense — it’s as old as the colony, dating to a time when the citizens of New Hope had very little choice as to their local watering hole, and it shows. In addition to the dirt floor, there are tables and chairs made from rough-hewn wood, a scuffed bar, and a drink selection of five: all you can order is ale (of unknown brand or provenance), brandy (likewise), wine (Pamarthen, not for the weak of heart or stomach); rum (bottled on-planet from locally grown sugar cane); and cusha, a sickly-sweet liquor made from fruit fermented in the proprietor's backyard.

Sarna, said proprietor, is a portly being with grey-green skin and flint-blue eyes who has little to no patience for most beings. But she has a soft spot for veterans, and if there’s one thing that Yavin IV’s not lacking, it’s loyal soldiers, current and former, in need of a drink.

Today, Poe and his father are among them, and they’re not alone: Kes Dameron’s friends from the local Veterans Committee meet there every week or so, and Poe only vaguely suspects that his father’d moved the usual date around to be able to show him off today.

“Damerons!” booms one of the men, a tall, broad guy with a bushy grey beard, as they walk in. The rest of the table — about fifteen beings, most of them human, all of them about Kes Dameron’s age or a few years older, stand up. Poe recognizes about half, folks who’d settled on the moon around the same time as his family, or whom he’d met on one of his few recent visits. And then there’s the sturdy, pink-skinned Mikkian, who's a complete surprise:

“Sakas!” he says, grinning, walking right over to kiss her on both cheeks. She laughs and returns the gesture, though it’s not traditional for her the same way it is for him. “What are you doing all the way out here?”

“Oh, this and that,” she says, shrugging, but — Poe can’t help notice — not quite meeting his eyes. “Checking up on your father, mostly."

“Keepin’ him out of trouble?"

“Seems like you Damerons always need it,” she says, giving his shoulder a fond, exasperated look.

“Yeah, clipped your wing a bit there, huh, son?” says Arili Markyl, another former Pathfinder, nodding at the sling.

Poe rubs self-consciously at the back of his neck, suddenly very aware of how much attention is on him and his injury. “Just an accident. Mostly healed, but…"

“He’s takin’ advantage of a little R&R time with his dad,” says Kes, coming up to his side. “Force knows he’s earned it.”

This is met with a lot of approving nods and no further questions; Poe throws his father a grateful look that no one else seems to catch.

No one that is, except for Sakas, who gives a swift, knowing nod and wraps her arm protectively around his waist. She guides him back toward a row of three empty seats, setting Poe down in the middle, with herself to the side; Kes follows, sitting on a stool on the other side, and leans over as everyone settles back into their own seats.

“So what’s everyone drinking?” says Kes, rapping his knuckles against the rough wood table. “Next round’s on us!” That earns cheers, obviously — even Poe joins in, and starts to stand. Kes waves him down. “I got it, kid. Catch these bums up on what’s goin’ on in the rest of the galaxy, huh?"

Poe laughs, but the group apparently takes it seriously: he fields a number of questions on intragalactic politics that he’s not entirely prepared to answer, given how long it’s been since he’s visited Hosnian Prime or really had the time to think about it. He’s just finished up bungling an answer about the Banking Alliance’s latest refusal to raise interest rates when T’iana Calad, formerly of Gold Squadron and an old friend of Snap’s mom, lobs him what she probably thinks is a bit of a softball:

“So what’re you up to now, kiddo? Last I heard, you were on Mirrin Prime, heading a squadron. How’s that going? They still got you on the T-85s?"

“Uh…"

“Poe’s running missions for Senator Organa these days,” says Kes, who’s appeared like a miracle, smoothly distributing drinks (ales, mostly, though Sakas and a few others have decided to brave the wine) around the table. This information is met with a wave of interest, followed by a couple of approving back pats — Yavin IV is Populist to fault and particularly loyal to the legacy of the Organas, which is rare for an Outer Rim planet, but given that the population is made up primarily of Alderiaan ex-pats and retired members of the Rebel Alliance, it’s not really surprising. Poe finds himself wincing from the attention, less because the sentiment than from the intensity of it. Kes works his way back to Poe’s side, smoothly blocking further access.

“Good man,” crows Nyeb Paesante from across the table, tipping his ale toward Poe. “You send the Princess our regards, lad. Tell ‘er we don’t hold with any o’ that nonsense about her father."

“Damn shame, that mess,” chimes Kresh Aiden, who’d flown an ambulance ship back in the day and now runs a clinic downtown. “Total hack job."

This elicits titters of agreement, and a conversation starts up, about how much truth there is behind rumors of General Organa’s biological parentage.

“Hell of a coincidence, it comin’ out right before the nomination,” says Sakas, which is met by a round of nods. “She’d've made a great First Senator."

“Because that kinda thing worked out so well last time,” says Krystah Rogocki; he and Sakas have always butted heads a little, going back to the old days. Poe’s never found out what the source of it was, and his dad’s carefully neutral on the subject, but Poe’s more inclined to trust Sakas and is usually on her  
side by default.

“We’re not talking about Palpatine here, K,” says Sakas, rolling her blue eyes. “We’re talking about _Princess Organa_. That kind of power in the _right_ hands isn't— "

“There ain’t no right hands for that kind of power," says Krystah, cold and humorless.

“So who’d y’all like for the Galactic Cup this year?” Kes says, a little abruptly, but it seems to work: talk of politics simmers down, and the conversation turns, only slightly less heatedly, to whether Gordian Athletic has a shot this time, or whether they’ll fall victim, yet again, to Team Fwillsving’s decade-long winning streak.

Poe lets it wash over him, remembering many conversations like this, in tone and cadence if not content — Sakas he’s known since he was a kid, and his dad’s small but steady band of VETCO friends has always been fun to catch up with during trips home from the Academy. A living reminder of the possibility, maybe even the likelihood, of a future — all of them had fought and bled and almost died for the New Republic, but they’d made it, they’d help build something real, even if it wasn’t perfect, even if it was never really done. And they’d got to enjoy a life of their own after, their own little bit of the peace and warmth in a big, cold galaxy.

It’s kind of nice, Poe thinks.

Sakas catches him smiling, and reaches over to squeeze his hand; that’s kind of nice too.

“It’s good you came home,” she says, low, leaning in a little to be heard by just him.

“Yeah?”

“Your father had us pretty worried.”

Poe blinks. Glances over at his dad, who’s in a deep discussion about how the trainer for Gordian Athletic was too much of a political pick to be very effective.

"Well, you know how Dad is," Poe says, vague but conspiratorial; Sakas laughs and shakes her head, sending her tendrils swaying.

"I do at that!" she says, taking a long sip from her wine. "Frankly I'm surprised he even told you, but..." she pats his hand fondly. "I'm glad he did."

"So am I," Poe says, watching Kes make wide, indignant gestures in support of whatever point he’s making. And he will be, certainly: once he figures out what his father's hiding from him and manages to finesse the details out of him, Poe will be very glad indeed.

"What?" says Kes, noticing that he's being stared at.

"You're crazy if you think it's down to the trainer," says Poe. "The problem's the players: they don't see themselves as a real team yet. They’re just a bunch of kids from different planets right now."

"You don't think that's down to the trainer?"

"I think that's up to the captain."

Kes gives a fond "agree to disagree" kind of huff and reaches over to give the back of Poe's neck a squeeze. Whatever he's about to say is lost when the rest of the table starts hooting and clapping. Poe and his dad turn as one to find the source of the commotion: Sarna, approaching with another full tray of drinks, balanced effortlessly on one hand, because in the other—

"Oh, no no no, _no_ ," Poe says.

"Next round's on the house," Sarna says, ignoring him as she slides the tray onto the table. "'s long as you folks help me out with a little problem I'm having."

"What sort of problem, ma'am?" says Kes, already grinning — he's planned this, Poe realizes.

"See, thing is, our regular entertainment's on the fritz lately," she says, nodding toward the ancient droid that plunks out a limited ( _very_ limited, in Poe's recollection) repertoire of Old Republic classics on a tinny valachord. "And I hear you Damerons've always got a song or two in ya'..." she holds out the guitar, a beautiful, intricately carved thing that Poe would normally die to try, and grins.

"That is a gross exaggeration," says Poe, and then gestures at his shoulder. "And unfortunately I can't really play right now, so—"

"So I guess you'll just have to sing along," says Kes, standing up to take the guitar, and nodding toward two stools and a low-tech (and probably unnecessary, given the size of the rooms) microphone that are not part of the cantina’s regular decor.

Yeah, Poe realizes, this was a total set-up, and honestly, shame on him for not picking up on it before. What kind of spy is he, really. 

Poe rolls his eyes, but stands, grumbling good-naturedly as he follows his father toward the make-shift stage and tries to remember the last time he sang in public, even to crowd this small. He used to do it all the time as a kid — his whole family’d been musical, had liked to sing to him as a baby and he'd picked it up quick, the old songs his grandfather was always humming under his breath, the newer stuff that was loud and discordant and angry, but made his mom grin as if remembering something sweet.

And he'd been decent at it, enough to be chosen to sing at school assemblies and the occasional market festival, with his dad playing guitar beside him — his mom had always thought that was real cute, taken lots of pictures, always made a point of being there to watch.

But it's been awhile since he's done anything like that: he mostly sings to himself and BB-8 these days, with his dad occasionally, or to whoever he's seeing _very_ rarely. He'd sung at the unsanctioned but traditional Academy talent show once, during his first year, and then never again: it'd garnered him way too much of the wrong kind of attention.

He plops down onto the stool in front of the microphone, and looks out at the crowd of veterans at the table and the few regulars stationed at the bar, while Kes strums lightly at the guitar, tuning it.

_Well_ , Poe thinks. _Always did like an adventure._

“So,” he says, clearing his throat; the microphone’s too high and he reaches out to adjust it, only to realize that’s not really a one-handed job. His dad leans out to help him. “Thanks,” Poe mumbles; Kes shrugs and goes right back to fiddling with the guitar. “Anyway. This is, uh… _I’ll See You, My Love, Back on Old Belleau-a-Lir_ , I guess?” He glances over at his dad, who gives an approving nod and strums the opening chords.

It’s a sad song to begin with — sad at its core, about soldier singing to her lover back home, imagining a reunion tour through all the beautiful places they’d visited during their courtship, all the while knowing she’s about to die, that she'll never make it. It’s made sadder still by context — Belleau-a-Lir, like everything else mentioned in the song, was on Alderaan.

It may seem strange to start with that, but these are Poe’s people, and he knows what they’re here for: nostalgia, mostly. A chance to think about the past, to remember the very worst of it without letting it crush them, because they’ve got others there that share the burden.

So he shuts his eyes, and he sings; his father, beside him, hums a low counterpoint and plays. They sound okay, Poe thinks — it’s been a while, and maybe he’s out of practice, but it’s a good song and it’s hard to ruin and the emotions do most of the work, plus his father’s always been better at the guitar than him.

When he finishes, he takes a breath before opening his eyes again. The room is silent, and, once he sees it again, still; everyone looks like they’re holding their breath. He gives a nervous chuckle, rubs the back of his neck. “So, um…any requests?"

That seems to break the spell. There’s an upswell of sound, a smattering of words in native languages and Basic: the names of songs, some of which Poe recognizes, most of which he doesn’t. He and his dad do their best — he forgets about half of the words to _(That Joyous Night) I Ate My Mate_ , but in his defense, he’s heard it maybe three times in his entire life. His dad’s friends are either too nice or too drunk to care, and cheer him on anyway. _Your Kiss Like Millaflower_ goes a little better, as does _The Death of Queen Amidala_. _Killik Silk and Naboo Nights_ is a big hit, though it makes Poe blush a little — he’d had a boyfriend, right out of school, that’d really liked that one.

They sing a couple more, mostly Old Republic staples, and a few newer songs that have filtered back from the Core. A shadowy figure in the corner asks for _Aivela of the Hardsell_ , which Poe doesn’t know. Kes snorts and strums a couple of unfamiliar, vaguely catchy notes, then shakes his head. “Nah, but I got a good one,” he offers, and starts up on a rough, jangling sort of rhythm that Poe recognizes immediately; the rest of the room seems to catch on just as quickly, start clapping to the beat. Kes grins. “Sing along if you know the words,” he says and launches gleefully into _Vader’s Many Prosthetic Parts_.

Everyone does — it’s over forty years old by now, written during the height of the Empire, banned on every Imperially sanctioned channel. Every official version was destroyed; every member of Hakko Drazlip and the Tootle Froots, the band that'd originally written and recorded it, was shipped off to the Spice mines of Kessel within days of its only live performance at an underground club on Pasher. But a low-quality bootleg recording of that night, raucous and raw and pulsing with anger, had been slipped to a few contraband channels and made its way through the galaxy like wildfire. It hadn’t exactly started the revolution: the seeds had long been there, would’ve spouted eventually no matter what. But it’d given the revolution a pulse, a language, a sound all its own — an anthem, to some. You’d hum a few bars and someone would answer them, and then you’d know, at least, that was a person you could trust.

Or at least, that’s how Poe’s mother alway told it. But then again, she’d been a pretty big fan.

The song itself is a bit of a call and response: a long list of body parts Darth Vader’d supposedly had to have replaced over the years, after having lost them doing various unpleasant things; the audience calls back the corresponding couplet describing what Vader had chosen to do with the _new_ , prosthetic parts (brutally torture innocent beings all around the galaxy, usually). The second to last verse is about Vader’s allegedly prosthetic cock; tradition dictates that everyone yell out that he can use it to go fuck himself.

The very last verse, however, tends to starts off a little softer: it’s about Vader’s heart, how it’s long gone and was never replaced, how he’s never wanted it to be. How it’s _that_ — and not the prosthetic parts, just what he’s done with them — that makes him a monster.

It’s not the most subtle of songs, but it’s a hell of a lot of fun to play, guaranteed to bring down the house when sung in front of certain audiences by even a half-decent singer. Kes Dameron’s much better than half-decent, and by the time he’s done, it feels like the audience is more than some old war buddies and a couple of old regulars at the bar: it feels like everyone in the galaxy is listening. It certainly sounds like they’re all there, cheering: the echo in the cantina amplifies the applause, and Kes ducks his head in an _aw shucks, folks_ kind of grin and taps his fingers nervously against the body of the guitar.

A chant of “Ano _ther_ , ano _ther_!” starts up in a far corner, not even from their party, and quickly catches on, carried by a wave of insistent, rhythmic clapping.

Kes waves out, shaking his head, still grinning a little; “I’m beat, folks,” he says, leaning over to talk into Poe’s microphone. The crowd quiets a little, and then Poe speaks.

“I’m not,” he says, impulsive, suddenly inspired.

Kes gives him a surprised, proud look. “Oh yeah, kid? What else’ve you got?”

Poe smiles to himself, and ducks his head a little. “This is, uh—“ he shrugs, and winces as his shoulder twinges. “This is a good one, too.” He closes his eyes again. Hums the first bars of _When the Whisper Bird Flies Home_ ; after a moment, he hears the stirrings of the guitar, of his father plucking out the delicate, simple melody. He starts to sing: it’s a sweet song, almost like a lullaby, about one of the beautiful golden birds found on Yavin IV — this one’s been separated from her flock, the song goes, but she’ll fly and fly, all night and day, through the storms and the swamps and the broken temples, trying to return. And when she makes it home, the flock will be complete, and there will be peace again. 

It’s a little older than Poe, this song, written back when the Rebel Alliance had first been stationed on Yavin IV, by a groundpounder who’d been more lyrically inclined than most. It was never banned, never considered quite as subversive or dangerous, for all that it was an Alliance song through and through, mostly sung at campfires by rebel soldiers far from home. Poe’s memories of his mother ebb and flow, sometimes, but he always remembers her voice, remembers her light accent on certain words as she sang it. That’s how he sings it, too; that’s how he always has.

He sings the last verse, the one about the whisper bird finally coming home, unaccompanied. That’s not traditional, but when he opens his eyes, after finishing, he realizes why: his father’s staring at him, gripping the neck of the guitar so hard his knuckles have turned white.

“Dad?” he says, softly; Kes shakes his head, presses his lips into a tight line. And then he reaches over, wraps his hand around the back of Poe's neck, and leans in to drop a swift kiss to Poe’s forehead.

“Okay,” Poe says, after. “That’s all _I’ve_ got."

**

Suffice to say, they get free drinks for the rest of the night.

It’s a nice gesture, but Kes is going to have to drive them home and Poe’s medication means the one glass of ale he’s had is already hitting him harder than he’d like. The rest of their table appreciates the open tab, at least, getting quite pleasantly sloshed as the evening skips on. Poe, having switched to water and retained something of level head, hears and will probably remember a great deal of stories about his father’s youthful exploits, most of which are probably exaggerated.

Poe doesn’t care. It’s the best time he’s had in more than a year, and it’s an honest to god disappointment when his father finally clears his throat and says that they need to be heading out. It’s a common sentiment: there’s a few grumbles, but everyone else’s got families of their own to get back to, as well, so it’s without much conviction.

“How about a toast first?” offers Kresh, and the rest of the group nods in approval. He looks to Kes, who shrugs, and stands. Raises a glass. “To Yavin IV, and the New Republic: hard sought, hard won, sometimes...hard to love…” a low ripple of laughter at that. “But ours, free and clear! Long may they stand.”

“Hear, hear!”

They all drink, and then Sakas stands up. “All right, all right, Sergeant Stoic.”

Kes winces a little at the nickname, and Poe feels kind of bad about laughing.

Sakas waves Kes down, and raises what’s probably her third glass of Port In a Storm. “To our very own Dameron boys,” she says, mock-serious, sincerely-fond, and a couple of good-natured whoops go up. “Heroes in war, friends in peace, and a sight for sore eyes—“

“And ears!” calls Krystah, to some laughter.

**

“—in all the times in between! Force love and protect them, ‘cause they sure as hell always need the help.” Some hoots about that, too, but everyone drinks to it, except for Kes and Poe, who both duck their heads and notice, at about the same time, that the other has done so as well.

“And to Princess Organa!” That’s T’iana, whose hand shakes a little from the weight of her tankard, but whose voice is steady and clear. “Health and joy to her and hers, may she enjoy her own hard-earned peace!" The cheers are less raucous this time, more considered, but just as sincere.

Poe swallows hard around the sudden lump in his throat, but raises his glass as well.

**


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Yeah, yeah," Kes teases, and tips the the mug in a casual toast before taking a sip. "You got any plans for the day?"_
> 
> _"I don't know. Was thinkin' of maybe walking into town, maybe." He hadn't been; doesn't know why he says so. It's a bit of a trek — an hour on a good day, if you're in a hurry, know the way, and conditions are ideal. If not, it can take six or more, if you get caught in the mid-day storm. But it's a good a plan as any, especially when thought of on the fly._

He wakes up to the sound of woolamanders hooting their way through the canopy.

It's unusually to hear, in the morning, this close to a home — most of the time, they steer clear of the settlements, probably for good reason. Poe checks the old-fashioned, hand-carved cronometro that's been a central feature of his room on Yavin IV since he left the Academy: a gift from his grandfather which he's opted to keep it here, rather than drag the thing from base to base, or risk losing it amidst an emergency evacuation. It's not exactly to his personal taste, but it does the trick here, occasioning the revelation that it's not nearly as early as he thought.

BB-8's nowhere to be found, and Yavin's yellow light is oozing heavily through the windows already. He makes his way to the kitchen, slipping on an old pair of slippers and wincing a little at the hangover he hasn't quite managed to avoid by sleeping as late as he had. There's fresh bread in the kitchen, fluffy and decorated with bright swirls of sugar: one of Poe's favorites as a kid. His dad must've bought them yesterday, during his secret market sojourn. In a bid toward a more balanced meal, Kes has also sliced up some koyo fruit, fresh from the ranch’s orchard.

There's also caf, which is almost as welcome. Kes Dameron brews it even stronger than his son does, a truth which would be met with horror and incredulity by anyone Poe's ever shared a mug with. But it's a comfort now, even softened as it is by the swirl of blue milk and cane sugar. There's a holopad on the table, left open to the daily news report — Kes is partial to Populist outlets, but there's a couple of alerts from Centrist stations as well. Poe lets his eyes skim over them: most of it's a couple of days behind his last intelligence report, with a lot more wild speculation about the aims of the Resistance than he's personally comfortable with. There's something he hasn't heard about, a newly formed committee on Hosnian Prime tasked with investigating the rise of so-called pirate attacks on Outer Rim planets; not like they'll make much headway, but maybe General Organa still has contacts in the Senate who're willing to—

"Hey, kid," from behind him, and he can't help jump. His father doesn't comment on it, but rests his hand on Poe's shoulder and gives him a squeeze. "You hogging all the caf?"

"Good mornin' to you too," he says, reaching over to pour his father a mug; Kes chuckles and gives his hair a ruffle, which Poe is momentarily powerless to avoid.

"Mornin', huh? More like afternoon there, hotshot."

"Yeah, yeah," he says, handing back the caf; Kes takes it and slips into chair across from him. "Thanks for breakfast."

"Yeah, yeah," Kes teases, and tips the the mug in a casual toast before taking a sip. "You got any plans for the day?"

"I don't know. Was thinkin' of maybe walking into town, maybe." He hadn't been; doesn't know why he says so. It's a bit of a trek — an hour on a good day, if you're in a hurry, know the way, and conditions are ideal. If not, it can take six or more, if you get caught in the mid-day storm. But it's a good a plan as any, especially when thought of on the fly.

His dad raises his eyebrows, possibly in surprise, probably in concern, but says nothing. Takes a sip of caf, and then says, carefully: "Take BB-8 with you."

"'course," Poe says, "Where is my droid, anyway?"

Kes's gaze drops for a moment. "Out in the yard, I think."

Poe feels a prickle at the back of his neck, but shakes his head; forces a laugh. "Playing with Xóchitl again, huh?"

"Yeah, maybe you should get the little guy a pet of his own one of these days, y'know? Keep him entertained."

Poe laughs for real. "Trust me, he's busy enough as it is."

**

It's a hot day — it's always a hot day, on Yavin IV — and BB-8's in the middle of the yard when he comes out, beeping cheerily as he spins in place; the cat is slinking around him, tail swishing, ears up and alert. "Hard at work, huh?" Poe says, and they both come to a dead stop. Xóchitl mrowls at him, then slinks off, apparently offended at the implication; BB-8 chirps at him, happily sassing him about having been asleep all morning while BB-8 was up and helping Kes out.

"Oh, thanks for that, buddy, good job showin' me up." Poe says one-handedly digging through his pack to make sure he's got what he needs and nothing else. "What'd he need help with?"

The droid lets out an unusual, though by no means entirely unfamiliar, sequence of beeps. Poe straightens, and looks up. "Really?"

BB-8 wiggles in affirmation. "Huh," Poe says, and looks back toward the house: his father's at the window, mug in hand, watching the scene. Having been caught looking, Kes gives a casual, slightly apologetic shrug and wave; Poe waves back, and is careful not to let his gaze drift toward the storage unit that's held his mother's A-wing for more than twenty years now.

**

The path from the Dameron ranch to New Hope is well-worn, partially reclaimed from ancient stone roads cut through the dense Massassi jungle by the moon's previous inhabitants, regularly used by not just Kes Dameron but also the regular shuttles ferrying tourists back and forth to the Great Temple.

Poe doesn't take that route.

He decides to go the long way around, through the thickest part of the jungle, instead. It's maybe a little foolish — even having lived there his whole life, even feeling like he knows Yavin IV like the interior of his X-wing, and done his fair share of rambling through the trees when he was a kid. He knows it well enough, in fact, to know just how easy it can be to get lost — how the weather can shift, how quickly the trees grow, how some of the plants are just this side of sentient and have messed with many an incautious explorer.

But it's not like he's on a schedule. For the first time in _months_ , actually, he's got a vague plan but not a mission, no one waiting up for him on base and depending on his intel or his x-wing or both.

He waits for that to feel liberating, for his lack of responsibility and his momentary freedom to feel _good_ , like a weight that's been lifted off of him and not like a missing limb. And keeps waiting, as he walks between the trees, earth soft beneath his feet, BB-8 rolling along behind him. Takes deep breaths of the humid, sweet-scented air, and lets his mind wander. Finds it pulled, as if by a tractor beam, to D'Qar, and the general, and his squad.

"You hear that?" he says to BB-8, needlessly — the droid's auditory sensors are picking up way more than Poe's own ears ever could. "The buzzing sound? That's the piranha beetles."

BB-8 lets out a concerned whistle, and Poe shakes his head. "No, they're nothing to worry about. They won't eat you." The droid chirps again. Poe shakes his head. "Or me, either. They stick pretty close to the ground, usually. Mostly just pick off the odd runyip."

BB-8 beeps an inquiry.

"Oh. Well, they're like so high," Poe says, leaning down to gesture about shoulder length. "Big feet, long noses. Stripes. Mostly they just forage." BB-8 makes a sound to indicate cautious interest; Poe smiles at that. "Maybe we'll see one. They're kinda shy around humans." Poe glances up. "We might see the woolamanders, though. They're all probably asleep by now, but at night they swing around in the trees, make this sound, like..." he imitates the low, soft hooting noise he'd woken up to that morning. "You ever see one up close, though, you kinda expect them to start talking. They've just got that....real wise, sad look to them, y'know?"

BB-8 coos at him, and Poe nods. "Yeah, they've been here forever, way before we showed up. I think the Massassi might've worshiped them or somethin', there's a temple out there that..." it's not far, actually — a bit of a detour, but always worth the trip, in Poe's experience. "I guess we could go check it out," he says. His droid, ever-accommodating, beeps enthusiastically at the possibility. "If you say so, buddy."

**

The scent of damp earth more than lives up to his memory of it. Poe's a little surprised at how much of a relief that is. Yavin IV changes rapidly — buildings require constant maintenance lest they be reclaimed by the jungle, and the daily rains can come to wash away all but the most carefully secured transport vehicles, which is to say nothing of how quickly vegetation springs up where you've just cleared it or how ancient leviathan grubs will tunnel out of the earth and charge you when you're least expecting them. At least one part of it remains predictable — the ground could shift at any moment, but the air will always, apparently, smell of home.

The Woolamander Temple is something of a local secret — while the Great Temple and the surrounding compounds have been regularly visited and thoroughly documented, both by the xenoanthropologists that've built their entire careers on the extinct civilizations of Outer Rim worlds, and by tourists, eager to see Base 1 of the Alliance to Restore the Republic, there are dozens of other, smaller temples scattering the moon that've been lost to the passage of time and the intractable growth of the jungle.

Poe tends to like those better.

He doesn't know all of them — he doubts anyone has _ever_ known all of them. The Massassi civilization lasted for millennia, after all, and the tree canopy is so lush that even flying over the moon wouldn’t yield a complete picture of everything on the ground.

But within walking distance of the ranch, he's pretty sure his mental map is complete. His parent's ranch wasn't small and his own room was a sanctuary, but Poe had spent years of his childhood, every spare moment he could, escaping into the lush green world beyond.

His mother had liked exploring too, had liked taking Poe with her as on rambles through the acres of indistinguishable Massassi trees, which had seemed impossibly tall to Poe, a child who'd spend most of his early life in spaceships and man-made trading posts. Even today, having seen a great deal more of what the universe has to offer in terms of natural wonders, he's floored by the sheer size of the things, and the _age_ of them — through the rise and fall of empires, of _species_ , these trees have stood, and grown, and lived.

Sometimes, his father would come along on the walks; Kes Dameron went in for caution more than Poe and his mom, showing them what to watch out for, how trees that'd had their roots eaten by leviathan grubs would go grey and ashy and were to be avoided, and the sounds armored eels made before they attacked. He had the training for it, had still approached unfamiliar terrain as though an enemy might be hiding right over the next ridge or tangle of vines. After Poe’s mother died, there’d been less of that — more hikes in silence, eventually less wariness at surroundings. 

Shara had preferred touring the ancient structures, while Kes had enjoyed tracking animals through the canopy. The Woolamander Temple had thus become something of a Dameron family favorite. The exterior'd been almost entirely covered by moss, and relatively young sapling had broken through the stone floor and snaked through the interior, leaves hanging out the narrow windows like billowing curtains. The best part had always been the statues, though — lovingly depicted woolamanders, larger than life and clearly distinguishable from each other. Some were obviously mothers, cradling their young to their chests; some were the brash young males, pounding their chests, opening their mouths in silent howls of dominance. The local stone they were carved from, thousands of years ago, had kept remarkably well, meaning minute traces of expression are still distinguishable, even under the patina of age.

It looks much the same, these days — Poe's not an expert in structural engineering but the stones it’s built from are thick and hardy, and it's lasted this long...well, he hopes it'll last a while longer, anyway. He runs his good hand along the wall as he walks around the structure; BB-8 follows along, beeping thoughtfully.

"No, no one lived here. It's a temple — they left sacrifices and prayed, stuff like that." An inquisitive beep follows. "I don't know, uh, a good harvest? Gentler rains. They were a warrior race so victory in battle, probably, but..." Poe looks down; BB-8 is staring up at him, gives a little trill. "No, I don't. I mean some people do but I mostly just..." he waves his hand vaguely. "Put my faith in the Force, I guess." Mostly he puts his faith in his squad, to be honest, but then he hasn't been much for religion since he was eight years old. "Anyway. There's a hidden tunnel inside, takes you out by the Starlight Lake. Most of these old buildings've got at least one escape tunnel like that — the Massassi tended toward pessimism, I think." Poe chuckles to himself, gives the wall of the temple a pat, then pushes off. "You should see the Great Temple, it's got at least six. The Rebels had a hell of time securing all of them back in the day."

BB-8 titters at him, and Poe shakes his head. "Maybe later, buddy. It's the other way, and it'll be too crowded to get a good look right now."

BB-8 wiggles in assent. Poe takes one last look at the temple, nods to himself, and walks away.

**


	6. Chapter 6

They make it to New Hope right before the storm hits, just barely.

Poe, who hadn't really had a plan or anything, and isn't really in the mood to try the market again, spots a surprising salvation right as he passes the old-fashioned caf salon: across the street is a building with white stucco walls and precise black lettering across the top the door, advertising _Dalo Zarbo -- Physician_.

The neat, clean structure, with its side-garden and its big windows, wooden blinds flung open at the moment to reveal the white tiles and light green walls within, practically exudes calm. Which is helpful, because most of Poe's memories of the place are not great.

Thunder rumbles above them. Poe strolls up the ramp, BB-8 rolling along at his heels, and makes it inside with just a few seconds to spare, before the rain starts.

Behind the broad wooden table that constitutes the receptionist's desk, there's an ancient droid and a young Mikkian, neither of whom he knows. They're combing through a set of files on their data screens, but the droid looks up at him and takes in his arm sling. "Welcome," they say, voice smooth and almost musical. "Do you have an appointment?"

"Hi. No, uh..." Poe rubs at the back of his neck nervously. "I just came by to say hello. If he's got a minute."

"What is your name?" says the droid.

"Oh. I'm Poe. Poe Dameron. And you are?"

The droid gives a stately nod. "I am N1-N4. You may call me Nina, if you wish."

"Let me guess," Poe says, smiling. "Everybody does?"

A low mechanical whirring that sounds almost like a hum. "Indeed."

"Do you like it?"

A considered pause. "Yes."

"Then, nice to meet you, Nina."

"Nice to meet you as well, Poe, Poe Dameron. I will apprise the doctor of your arrival." The droid nods again, and then wheels away toward the back office.

The Mikkian looks up from his survey of documents. "You Sergeant Dameron's kid?" he says, excitedly. Poe nods, suddenly wary. "Man, I love your dad! He used to come to up to the junior academy and talk about the war. Great stuff. I can't believe he fought with Han Solo! And the Princess! And—"

"Mr Dameron!" comes a booming shout. "Come on back, my boy!"

Poe gives the Mikkian an apologetic, if secretly relieved, half-shrug, and heads over.

He passes Nina on the way. "The doctor has approximately twenty six minutes," says the droid, serenely. "Do try not to keep him."

"Of course," Poe says.

BB-8 trills something at Nina. "Well!" they say, apparently insulted on Poe's behalf. "I'm sure he'll do his best."

Poe laughs, and gives them another little wave, before entering the private office.

Dr. Zarbo is short and squat, with dark brown skin and a handsome face — when Poe was a kid, his hair'd been mostly on the pepper side of the salt-and-pepper divide, but now it's decidedly tipped the other way. His eyes are sparkling black, sharp but kind. He wears a solid gold wedding band, an old Core tradition, even though his husband's been dead for years. He's got an Imperial accent, which Poe'd been told long ago it was rude to ask about, but one of the few decorations in his personal office is an ancient, oft-mended Pamarthen flag. His hands are dry and soft, with the long, delicate fingers of a surgeon; his handshake is as firm as it's always been.

"Heard you were in town, lad," he says, cheerfully, letting go of Poe's hand and waving him into a chair. "Wondered if I'd get a chance to see you."

"Well, I had some time, you know."

"I had Lenni pull some of your charts, anyway, just in case," Dr. Zarbo says, in that casual, hurried way he's always had, as he pulls up some scans up on the holoprojector he keeps at his desk. He lights a cigarra, and whistles around it. "Mm. Well. Did a real number on your clavicle there, didn't you? New skin holding up well?"

"So far," says Poe, suddenly horrified at the possibility of an alternative.

"Jolly good. Let's have a look then."

"Doctor, I'm not—"

"No, no, nothing formal, just a bit of professional curiosity, see how you're coming along."

Poe sighs, but sets about unfastening the clasps on his sling; Dr. Zarbo notices his difficulty and rises immediately, freeing him. He helps Poe flex his arm, running some sort of scanner over it, and nodding approvingly as he does. "Excellent!" he'll exclaim, occasionally, and "Jolly well done."

When he's finished, he helps Poe rejigger the sling and pats him companionably on the back. "Kalonia's work, no question. A veritable ace with a laser, that woman. Send along my regards, would you?"

"Excuse me?"

"When you see her again, I mean," he says, leaning back in his chair. "Did you know, we trained together?"

Poe hadn't — they're about the same age, it's true, and both had a history with the Rebellion, so perhaps it's not surprising.

"Danced together at the odd mandatory ball, that sort of thing." Dr. Kalonia's got about six inches on him, so that's quite an image. Dr. Zarbo catches Poe's smile at the thought, and chuckles. "Well, one had to make do, my boy. The bad old days, you know. The partners I'd've preferred to have would've been..." he sighs, glances over at the set of photographs on his desk. "Not terribly acceptable for an ambitious young man like myself."

"Of course," says Poe, chastened.

"No, no, none of that. Long time gone, better days had, and so on." Dr. Zarbo says, taking a drag from his cigarra, and exhaling it. "So, Mr. Dameron. Now that you've indulged an old man's whims and fancies. What can I do for you?"

"I can't just come and catch up with old friend?"

The doctor laughs. "Oh, of course, of course," he says. "Well, what can I tell you? The weather's abysmal, as always: hot, and bright, except when it's raining, which is daily. I've planted a new crop of millaflowers in the garden, they've come in well."

"And the practice?"

"Oh, growing, growing. My hopes of a quiet life as a small-planet doctor have been long-since dashed, as you know."

"There's always retirement."

"Hah!" Dr. Zarbo shakes his head. "People like us, lad, we never know when to quit, do we?"

"I guess not."

"You still too busy for a husband?"

"Why's everyone around here so worried about my love life?"

"Mm, that'd be a no, then?" The doctor fixes him with a sympathetic look, but mercifully moves on. "Your father tells me you're off Mirrin Prime, now. Some sort of secret assignment with the Princess?"

"Something like that, yeah," says Poe, wondering how much more he can say. "Lots of recon runs, retrievals, stuff like that. They've got me in a T-70, which is a little older than what I had back in the Navy, but it's my own ship, handles a little better, especially after the modifications I made to..." the doctor is nodding politely, in that way he has that indicates he's not sure what's being talked about but means to be supportive. Poe is struck by swift, honest affection for the man, for all that he's inextricably linked to some of Poe's worst memories. It makes him regret what he's about to do, a little. "Anyway. It's good to be home for a few days."

"I can only imagine," Dr. Zarbo says, a hint of wistfulness in his tone. "I'll bet your father's happy to have you, as well."

 _Perfect_ , Poe thinks. "Well, you know dad."

"Mm, that I do."

"I was actually thinking of stickin' around a little longer, though. I was talking to dad, and you know, even with his episode being so minor—"

The doctor's chair slams back down on the ground. "Is that what he told you?"

"Uh—"

"You Dameron men! Always thinking you know every blasted thing, better than anyone else."

"Dr. Zarbo—"

"Force, it's a bloody wonder you're not _both_ dead. No, it wasn't a proper heart attack _this_ time, but it was still _quite_ serious! He needs to take better care of himself, and if you can't convince him to stop _traipsing_ through the jungle in the dead heat, then I'm not sure who can."

Poe finds himself clenching his jaw. Forces a smile. "I'll talk to him."

"Yes, well," says the doctor, jabbing his cigarra at Poe. "You jolly well better, lad. Or else the next time'll be a hell of a lot worse."

"Oh," Poe says. "I'll definitely keep that in mind."

 

**

Poe stays in Dr. Zarbo's office a little longer than he intends — the storm's long since passed, as has the time frame suggested by Nina. BB-8 beeps impatiently at him as he says his goodbyes to the doctor and the receptionists.

"Somethin' on your mind, there, buddy?" he says, faux casual, as they leave the building. BB-8 practically screeches at him, and Poe sighs. "Come on, BB-8. You know dad wasn't going to say anything himself: he’d never ask for help, not if it might cause people trouble.”

BB-8 makes a low, sarcastic sound, sort of like a whistle.

"Oh, come on!" Poe says. "No I do not! That was a _totally_ different situation." The droid ignores his protests, rolling merrily away, and leaving Poe to chase after him, straight back toward the market.

Which is—fine. Poe'd been planning to go back there, anyway, catch up with Sola again and see about that drink. At least there's always something to do there, too.

Poe sighs, and heads off.

 

**

After making plans for the rest of the afternoon, once Sola is done for the day, Poe finds himself at the newly restored fountain again. He has to admit, it's growing on him. He settles down with a fried pastry filled with spiced, ground meat, and a plastobubble of koyo juice. BB-8 beeps the occasional question at him; the fountain gurgles away. Tourists and locals bustle by, a swirl of colors and languages, the embodiment of indifferent but peaceful coexistence.

Poe finds himself smiling, even though his shoulder aches, even though he burned his tongue on the pastry filling. BB-8 gives himself an encouraging trill and Poe chuckles and shakes his head. "No reason," he says, and takes a deep breath. The perpetual tightness in his chest begins to ease, if not disappear entirely, for the first time since Snap dropped him off.

"So," says Kes Dameron, settling down on the cool tile surface next to him. "Got an interesting holocall from Dalo."

And the tightness in his chest returns.

"Oh yeah?" says Poe, looking straight ahead.

"Apparently he was _very_ disappointed in me for hiding the severity of my condition, though quite pleasantly surprised I'd told you at all."

"How 'bout that."

"'course I was kinda surprised by that myself, given that _I hadn't told you_."

"The Force works in mysterious ways," says Poe, vaguely, and his father sighs.

"Kid—"

"You _lied_ to me."

"I didn't. No, Poe, I did not—"

"You didn't tell me the truth, which is the same damn—"

"Poe Dameron Bey, you are still my son and I'm still your father and that's still deserving of at least _some_ respect, here—"

"Respect is earned."

"Oh, and you think I haven't?"

He's got him there, and he knows it. There may be no living being in the entire galaxy Poe respects as much as he respects his father. Poe scowls. "I'm getting a drink with Sola tonight. I'll be back late."

"Poe—"

Poe sighs, dropping his gaze. "I'm sorry I went behind your back. But you should've told me."

"What good would that've done?" says his father, sounding — almost amused.

Poe turns to him. Tries his best to keep his voice even. "Well, at the very least, I'd still be able to trust you to tell me the truth."

"Kid—"

"Why'd you have BB-8 run diagnostics on Mom's ship?"

Kes's eyes narrow, and he glances over at the droid, then back at Poe. "I—" he swallows. "I wanted to make sure it was in working order."

Poe stares at him. "Why? You taking it somewhere?"

"Hard as it is for you to believe, hot shot, I have flown a ship before."

Which isn't an answer, at least not to the question Poe was asking. "Not an A-Wing."

"No," Kes says. "Not an A-Wing."

Poe stands up. "Okay. Fine. We'll talk about it later. And about your..." he sighs. " _Condition._ "

"Son—"

"Dad. Just—" Poe shakes his head. "Whatever you're not telling me....I mean, I get that. There's a million things I'm not telling you—"

"A million?" his dad tries to tease, but there's an edge to it, real concern. _Good_ , thinks Poe, a little vindictively. _See how you like it._

"—but you're my family. I have to know you're safe, okay? As safe as you can be, right now. So just..." he sighs. "Just think about _why_ you're not tellin' me whatever it is you're not tellin' me. And if it's worth it. And then we’ll talk."

His dad is watching him, and cycles through serious and frustrated and angry, to wistful and sad, as if remembering something. Then he smiles, slight. "Okay, kid," he says, standing up. Clasps his hand around Poe's good shoulder, and gives him a quick nod. "We'll talk about it tonight."

A loud series of beeps from between them, and they both look down. BB-8 is swiveling his domed head between them, chattering away. Kes looks at Poe. "He uh...wants to go back with you," Poe interprets.

"With me?" Kes says, brow furrowed. "Why?"

 _He thinks you need looking after_ seems like the wrong thing to say, so Poe just half-shrugs. "Beats me."

"Huh. Well, if you want, little guy," his dad says, and gives Poe another nod. "See you, kid."

They walk away together, man and droid — BB-8 looks back, after a few feet, and gives an odd little wobble that seems almost like a nod of his own.

 

**


	7. Chapter 7

Suffice to say, he's not in the best mood when he meets up with Sola again.

They'd decided against both the trendy new cantinas and the Armored Eel; Poe's not entirely up to dealing with the crowd in the former tonight, and when it comes to the latter, Sola has never been that comfortable with the war hero types.

Blaster Shots is comfortably in between — has its share of fruity drinks and kitschy decor, but caters mostly to locals. There's also better-than-average cantina food, which Poe suspects is mainly the draw for Sola. He's already two of the famous cusha shots in, with a sampler basket full of chuchitos in front of him, when Poe shows up.

"My man!" Sola says, standing up and sweeping Poe into a long, back-patting hug. Pulls back, keeping his hands on Poe's biceps, and gives him a long look. "Oooh, that's a good face."

"Only one I got, man," Poe says, hoping he's not blushing.

"Aw, and a lil' bit of that old Poe Dameron jaw clench," he says, shaking Poe a little, teasing him. "C'mon, kiddo, let’s get you cheered up, huh?" He waves down a waitress, ordering another round of shots. Poe nods, a little aimlessly, and lets himself be shoved down into a chair.

Drinking with Sola is too easy — has _always_ been too easy. Even though Poe should be careful, what with his meds, he gets a pint of the house ale after his shot. Sola scoots his chair over so he can throw an arm around Poe's neck, jostling the injured shoulder in the process but Poe's not about to complain. He's missed that sort of closeness, the physical comfort: it's a mistake to look for it here, he knows. But because he does know it — because he's known it for years — he's gotten good at toeing the line.

Poe laughs and leans into to him, till their heads bump together.

"So," Sola says. "What's got your jaw a-clenchin', my man?"

"Nothing."

"Hah!" Sola takes a sip from his drink. "Is it your dad?

"Ugh," Poe says, taking his own swig, and Sola laughs. 

"So _that's_ a yes," he says, nudging Poe a little. "C'mon, Dameron. Spill. Sergeant Stoic pissed at you for smiling too much or somethin'?"

"No, it's not—" Poe sighs, and takes a long drink. "He's just — he was sick, and he didn't tell me." 

"Well," says Sola, sensible, as he reaches for one of the small steam-cooked bundles of dough. "That's Sergeant Stoic for ya."

"That's not funny."

"Wasn't trying to be," he says, licking his fingers clean. "But that's just your dad, kiddo. That's just _my_ dad. That's just a whole damn generation of bastards that don't like sharin' their weaknesses with people, 'cause where they came from — _what_ they came from, meant they'd be targets. Plus, of course, with you off in the Core, flyin' your secret missions, savin' the galaxy from what all, you've got more than enough to worry about. Didn't wanna bother you, I'd bet."

"He's my _dad_. It's not—it's not a _bother_. I’m all he’s got, now. I have to take care of him."

"Nah," Sola says, pointing at Poe. "He's supposed to take care of you. And that's what he thought he was doin'." 

Poe blinks. "You knew."

"'bout his heart?" Sola shrugs. "Heard a thing or two about it, yeah."

"And _you_ didn't tell me?"

He laughs. "Poe Dameron, I ain't heard a thing from you in over two years. Barely remember the last time you were in town —"

"That's not—"

"Didn't even know where you were based, until your father mentioned you weren't there anymore. So, how exactly was I supposed to let you know?"

"You could've...told me yesterday...." he says, weakly, and then sighs. Drops his glass to the table. Rubs the back of his neck with his good hand. " _Fuck_." 

Sola raises his eyebrows, and grins, punching Poe's injured shoulder gently. "Look. I ain't pissed at you, if that's what's got you cussin'. Not like I made a real effort to keep in touch with you either. Didn't invite you to the weddin' or anything."

"I woulda come," says Poe, earnestly — he would've at the very least _tried_ , if given the chance.

"Yeah, okay," Sola says, and dips his glass at him in a half-hearted toast. "Thing is — I know your dad's not my biggest fan. But he's a good man, and so're you. I know you can cut him some slack, and yourself some, too. Right?" Poe ducks his head, but nods. " _Right_. So now that's over with—"

"Oh, no..."

"Oh, yes. You're gonna tell me all about your life of world, Mr. Bigshot Naval Commander or some shit."

"It's not—it's not that big a deal..."

"The hell it's not!" he says, giving his shoulder another squeeze. "Some of us gotta live vicariously, here. So, talk to me, Dameron — what's the craziest thing they had you doin'?"

"Uh..." Poe blinks, scrambling to call to mind something he can talk about, that isn't classified, but interesting enough to be worth listening to. Sola leans in, all ears, and so — Poe tries.

**

"Seriously? You're not seein' _anyone_?"

The cantina'd closed, and they're stumbling their way back through the cobbled streets of central New Hope to Sola's place — for all that Poe could probably make it back home in the dark, without BB-8 or any kind of blaster on him, the jungle's too dangerous at night. Not like it'll be the first night he's spent on Sola's couch, after all. He'll holocall his dad when he gets there — if not, Kes'll be sure to figure out where he's been anyway.

He notices Sola looking at him funny. "What?"

"I said, are you seriously not seein' anyone?" 

Poe groans. "Why do people keep _asking_ me that?"

Sola raises his eyebrows, then gives him a quick, sweeping look. "'Cause, damn. _Look_ at you." 

"I’m _busy_ , man. Dating's just..." he waves vaguely. 

"Who said anythin' about dating, Dameron? I'm talkin' just plain old fashioned... _stress relief_ , if you know what I mean."

"Oh, well, yeah — _tons_ of _that_."

"Dameron, you _dog_!" Sola whoops, jumping up a little and throwing his arm over Poe's shoulders. "Seriously?!"

"No!" he says."No, not _seriously_. Nothing like that. Not my scene, man."

"Pffft," says Sola, still hanging around his neck. "Such a fucking waste."

Poe laughs a little, and blushes. Ducks his head. "Thanks, I guess?"

"I mean it! Man, I half want to jump you myself, just lookin' at you," he says. 

Poe pulls away from him, ducking his head again. "Don't say shit like that." _If you don't mean it._

"Oh," he says, keeping his distance, but reaching over to punch Poe's arm again. Gentler, this time, more of nudge. "Okay. Listen up, kid. We're gonna find you someone, you got that?"

"We, who?"

"Me, your dad, the damn galaxy you're out to save — I promise. Some guy out there, just waitin' to be swept off his feet by that classic Dameron charm."

"Yeah, yeah," Poe says, shaking his head. Looks up at the sky — it's clear tonight, affording a great view of the stars above. "You know, my parents..." he looks over at Sola, and then back up. "They always just seemed to _get_ each other, y'know? So different most of the time but not—"

"Not where it mattered?"

Poe nods; it's sappy but true. "Like they had this..." he waves his hand in front of him; he’s more than a little drunk, which isn’t helping. "This _connection_. Or like...or like _gravity_. Always pullin' toward each other. Always workin' together. Being with them was like — like just the three of us, that was the whole world. Never felt like that with anyone. Never felt that safe, or sure. You ever..."

Sola looks at him for a long time, then shakes his head. "Nah. I mean, my wife..." he shrugs. "I loved her and all. But it was the rush of it, y'know? Then you wake up one day, realize, hey—that's a real person there. Wanted to get off the planet, which I'd never do, and..." he sighs. "Barely knew her, in the end." 

"I'm sorry, buddy."

"The way it goes, I guess," he says, like some sort of philosopher. 

Poe reaches over to punch his arm — whether as a comfort or a jab, even he's not entirely sure.

"No, no, man. Don't worry 'bout me. Got the ladies _lining_ up, on this end. What we," he says, pointing at himself, and then randomly, at houses down the street. "What _we_ gotta worry about, is _you_."

"About my love life?" he says, incredulously, and Sola laughs.

"Nah, man. Just about your...." he gives Poe a long, strange look. “Yourself, man. Your sad-angry-nervous _self_.” 

Poe scoffs, and gets an arm around his shoulders for his trouble — it twinges a little, but he’s willing to bear it. “I’m fine.”

“You’re tense as hell, man. And honestly? I feel like that’s the _least_ of your problems,” Sola says, and leans over to press a loud kiss to his temple. “But hey, whatever you say, Commander.”

**


	8. Chapter 8

Poe walks back to the ranch around midmorning.

It’s good to clear his head — he’s not hungover, which is more than can be said for Sola, but he’d feel like a heel asking his dad to come and pick him up from town, only to drive him all the way back to home again, for no reason. And Sola’s got his own job to get to, done more than enough to try and buck Poe up already. 

So, he walks. 

It’s a clear morning, hot as always, relieved only by the very occasional Yavin breeze. Humid air fills his lungs and sweat sticks to his skin; his back aches, from a night on an ancient, creaky couch — could’ve hacked that easily enough in the old days, but he’s not a kid anymore. He finds himself smiling anyway, waving at the tourists on the shuttle heading toward the Great Temple complex. His shoulder doesn’t hurt at all.

**

The house is empty when he arrives to drop off his pack and wash off, but he can hear BB-8’s cheerful bleeps echoing through the yard once he steps outside again.

His dad’s tinkering with one of the perimeter fence generators, which have a tendency to glitch with the humidity; BB-8’s cheerfully offering suggestions that Kes meets with bemused grunts as he reaches down, blindly searching for tools by feel. 

“Here,” says Poe, handing him a dynamic hammer. 

Kes takes it with a nod. “Thanks, kid,” he says, and gets back to work. 

Poe joins him, handing up tools and scrubbing off corroded circuitry with an old rag — it’s calming, a rare chance to be immediately useful. BB-8 chatters at him, reports of what his father’s been up to — apparently Xóchitl is allowed on not just the couch but the bed in Poe’s absence — and some light scolding for not coming home last night, which Poe nods apologetically at, too used to and comfortable with the silence to break it.

Eventually, Kes bangs on the side of the generator once for luck, and switches it back on — it hums confidently to life, as if fully prepared to power the fence that keeps the very worse of Yavin IV’s flora and fauna from showing up at their back door. His father gives a wry but content smile, and reaches over to pat Poe’s arm. “Thanks for the help,” he says.

“That’s what I’m here for.”

His dad chuckles, shaking his head. “You still wanna talk?”

“It can wait.”

**

And wait it does, till after lunch, when the storm’s started and raindrops are battering the durasteel roof above them. Poe is drying and putting away the dishes Kes has just washed away before his father speaks again: “Don’t like keepin’ things from you.”

“I know,” says Poe, not turning to look at him — he’s found, in his experience, that that make it easier on his father. 

“Didn’t think you’d like hearin’ it, to be honest. But a friend of mine — no one you’d know — needs a ship he can borrow. Somethin’ fast, discreet—”

“Mom’s ship.”

“See, I knew you’d—” his father sighs. “Kid, that’s a working spaceship out there. Your mother’d want it put to use, not fallin’ apart in storage.”

Poe knows he’s right. Neither of his parents had a lot of room for sentiment in their lives, especially once they’d joined the Rebel Alliance. 

“And he’ll take good care of it. Best pilot I know, after you and your mom.”

Poe turns around. “My mom and me,” he says, pointedly, and Kes nods, smiling a little — he’s got that look in his eye though, the one he gets whenever Shara Bey comes up: sadness is the least of it, the base of it, wrapped in cold desolation and long-simmering anger. Poe takes a breath; Kes blinks, and drops his gaze. 

“Okay,” Poe says. “And your heart?”

Kes rolls his eyes. “Kid—”

“ _Dad_.”

“I’m fine. Gotta drink less, eat better, Dalo’s got me on some sorta pill these days. I’m fine. Don’t worry.”

“All right. But I asked Sola to come and check in on you every—”

“Kid, come on!”

“I gotta know you’re okay, here. You get that, right?”

Kes sighs. “Okay,” he says. “I hear you.”

**

The rest of the afternoon is peaceful — the rain stops, and Kes goes to check on the chickens and do a lap around the orchard. Poe gives the A-Wing a once-over: it’s in excellent working condition, given that it hasn’t been flown in years.

They head back inside. Poe plays with Xóchitl, who likes to bat around an enormous plush sintaril toy — Poe’d seen one just like it at the market, knew it couldn’t’ve come cheap, and smiles to think of who might’ve bought it for her. 

Night falls, and a tightness takes over Poe’s chest — his shoulder’s healed, or near enough; his mind is clear and eager to have him back on the frontlines. But he looks at the blue walls of the living room, the old brown couch that’s about as old as him, the holos on the walls...the massive purple cat, curled up on the floor...his father, asleep in his faded green armchair...Poe almost can’t breath. 

He has to get out.

**

He hears the footsteps approaching behind him, but doesn’t look up right away, not till he hears his father clear his throat. When he does, Kes is carrying two beers, and smiling, a little. Poe chuckles, and reaches out.

The bottle’s cold against his palm. He waits till his father has settled down next to him to take a sip; once Kes is seated, he tips the neck of his bottle in Poe’s direction, a subtle toast. Poe tips his in return, and they both take a drink. 

“Always came lookin' for you here first, when I couldn’t find you."

Poe takes another swig. “Not always.” 

“Nah, not that first time, I guess. Ever since then, though.” Kes takes a drink. “You were a good kid."

“Could’ve been better,” he says, remembering one or two frantic afternoons he’d cost his dad, running away from home, and one scorched Force tree or another.

“Coulda been worse.” 

Poe holds in a laugh. In a way, he guesses, that’s true — a million things he could’ve done that he didn’t. Million chances he had to truly mess things up, and he didn’t take them. But he made his dad’s life a hell of a lot harder than he should’ve, and that’s on him, no one else. In a way, he hasn’t learned. He presses his shoulder against his father’s. Shuts his eyes. Sighs.

“Been thinking,” he says, after a moment, after another steadying swig of beer.

“Yeah,” says Kes, not a question, as if he already knows what Poe’s about to say.

“Maybe I could stick around a little longer. See you through the rest of the season, help out around here.” 

Kes is quiet. Poe hears him take another sip of beer, and then a breath. 

“That what you want?” he says, finally. 

Poe shrugs.

“Could always use the help.” Kes’s voice is carefully steady. “Miss havin’ you around, you know that."

“Yeah, I know.” Swallows another swig of beer. “Shoulda come back more often.” 

“Not gonna argue with you about that."

But he is going to argue with Poe about something. Poe glances over: Kes is staring straight ahead, not ready to start in yet. Poe follows his gaze, to the pink-blooming tree his parents had planted in their yard when they’d first moved to Yavin IV, the one he’d spent a year nursing back to health once, after nearly destroying it with the exhaust from two podracer engines.

“You’re so much like your mom.” That’s nothing he hasn’t heard before, but his dad keeps going. “I mean, you look like her, fly like her. When you’re pissed, you do this thing, with your jaw…” he reaches over to tap lightly at Poe’s chin; Poe ducks his head, a little embarrassed that his father’s noticed it. “Pure Shara Bey. And you’re smart, so damn smart, always were, and that’s all her. Sure as hell didn’t get it from me.” Kes father chuckles, shaking his head.

“Dad—"

“Thing is, that makes me forget, sometimes, how much you’re like me, too."

Poe turns to look at him — Kes is watching him, and his expression is worried, but more sad than anything.

“That’s not a bad thing,” he says, too quickly, but he means it.

Kes huffs a laugh and looks away. Takes another long swig of beer. “Think it’s a bit of both, really.”

“Dad."

“Your mom always wanted to help people. She kept fighting ‘cause it was the right thing, ‘cause she was brave and good and felt like she had to. I wasn’t as noble as all that: wanted to make sure the galaxy’d be safe, for the two of us, and for you. Wanted to make sure it was the kinda place we could build ourselves a little house, live a quiet little life, when the war ended.” He drinks again; Poe’s beginning to suspect the beer was a calculated surrender. He’s never heard his father talk this much about anything. “Your mom, though, she was smart enough to know: war like that was never really gonna end. All we ever did was change it, slow it down. But someone’s always gonna be fighting for the same things."

Poe takes a large gulp of beer, and his dad looks back over at him. 

“And you know that, too. Think in some ways, you always have. It’s a hell of a burden to carry. And you, kid...” Kes points at him, smile on his face gone a little sad. “You’ve been fighting ‘cause you think you owe it to us, me and your mom and the rest of us, and that ain’t ever gonna be enough for you. Wouldn’t've been enough for me, anyway. Need to look forward to somethin’, you can’t just be lookin' back. You gotta think about what you want, Poe, and fight for that. It don’t make you any less brave, and it don’t make you any less good."

“I don’t know what I want.” He doesn’t, beyond the broad, sweeping strokes of justice and freedom and an end to the threat of intragalactic tyranny. 

“Well, kid, you ain’t gonna figure it out here,” says Kes, nudging him in the ribs. “This is your home, always will be, and you’re always welcome here. You wanna stay for a bit longer, and I ain’t gonna stop you. But there’s a whole wide galaxy out here, waitin’ for you to find the piece of it that’ll be just yours. For me it was you, and your mom, and this place. And I wouldn’t trade any of it, not one second, no matter how much some of them hurt.” 

“I’m not afraid of getting hurt.” He’s not: he’s lost so much already, and he’s seen what people can bear. His father had lost the love of his life, and kept living. General Organa had lost her whole planet, and kept fighting for it, for everything it represented.

“Never were afraid of much, kid,” his father says, fondly, and drapes his arm over Poe's shoulder. “Always so proud of you for it. Maybe I shoulda told you, it’s okay to be, sometimes."

“Dad…” he starts, embarrassed, and Kes chuckles and reaches over to cuff him gently on the chin. 

“Let’s get you back inside, kid, before you say anythin’ too embarrassing. Force, with the way you’ve been talkin’ my ear off out here…” 

Poe chuckles, and helps his father off the ground, resting his hand on his mother’s A-wing as he does. Runs his fingers along its side as they make the trek back to the house, leaning on each other a little as they go.

**


	9. Chapter 9

“Oh, hold on a sec’,” says Kes, heading back inside the house. “I got you somethin’.”

“Really?” he calls out. It’s not like his father has never given him a gift or anything, but going away presents are rare. “What?”

“Well,” Kes says, emerging from the front door with a square, flat box balanced in front of him. “Open it, and find out.”

He hands it to Poe, who’s glad to have use of both hands again — not that it’s particularly heavy, but it’s wide and would’ve been tricky to maneuver. Tries to be careful with the lid, easing it open, but it falls to the ground. 

“Wow,” he says, and grins.

“You like it?” Kes says, almost sounds nervous. 

Poe nods; finds himself almost choked up, actually, as pulls out the flight jacket — brown leather, a little old fashioned, but clearly well made and durable. _The simple things_ , he thinks, and looks up at his father.

“‘Cause I figured, you already got boots and a blaster, but…”

“Could always use more coats,” says Poe, slipping it out of the box. It’s good to be able to slip one on again, without a sling in the way. It fits perfectly, smells slightly of leather and the market and koyo fruit. “Thanks, Dad,” he says. 

Kes nods, taking the empty box from him. Then reaches out, wrapping his arms around Poe to give him a swift, tight hug. “Take care of yourself, kid,” he says, pulling back but dropping a quick kiss to Poe’s forehead first.

Poe smiles. “Okay, Dad.”

“Don’t worry, Sergeant Dameron,” says Snap, striding up and bumping his shoulder against Poe’s. “All of us’ll keep an eye on him.”

“Full time job, Captain,” Kes says. “Gonna hold you to it.” Snap gives him a quick salute in response, and then grins.

“Thanks for lunch, sir — best meal I’ve had in months.”

“No problem at all, son. Nice to be appreciated, once in awhile.”

“We should get going, right?” says Poe, glancing at the sky — night’s about to fall.

“Right,” says Snap, and reaches out to shake Kes’s hand again. “Thanks again, sir.”

“You’re welcome,” Kes answers, and give them both a long, serious look. “Safe travels, you two.” 

More of an order than anything, and so they both respond with a formal “Yes, sir.” Even BB-8 gives a low, serious beep in response. Poe can’t help but laugh at that, but does it to himself, as he turns away, following Snap back to the clearing where he’d landed. 

Poe is halfway back to the ship before he turns back — Kes is standing where he was, Xóchitl at his side, watching them go. Night’s begun to fall and the ranch is illuminated behind them; the koyo orchard lies beyond that, almost lost within the vast sprawl of the jungle. A whisperbird coos in the distance. 

Kes waves. Poe waves back.

“See you soon,” he calls out, and hopes that he will.

**Author's Note:**

> The fic is complete and I'll be posting a chapter a day, if everything goes well. So, y'know, fingers crossed.
> 
> ( _Come and chat with me[on tumblr](http://morethanonepage.tumblr.com/) if you like._ )


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